


Her Honor

by issa



Series: Fear of Tomorrow [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 78,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issa/pseuds/issa
Summary: They kept their eyes locked on each other until the thick cloud of smoke separated them…Their enemy has made his move. The Queen has been kidnapped, and Treville seriously injured. The Inseparables and Constance must give their all in the fight for Queen Anne and… France.





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N  
> This is the promised sequel to The Hunt, but it can also stand alone. Our Musketeers and Constance are recovering at an estate that has been given to the Crown, but is too modest for the King’s taste. Somewhat AU. Takes place after season 1.

Treville

 

The shot took him by surprise. Not because the bullet had hit his body-that was not unexpected during such a skirmish. It was that source of the bullet that had been so shocking.  It had come from the pistol of a Red Guard. A man who should defend the Queen at all costs, not try to kill her protector.

 

As he struggled in vain to remain in the saddle, the Musketeer Captain heard Anne cry out his name, her voice desperate. 

 

He fell heavily next to Henri, one of his men. The musketeer lay motionless in the muddy road, his sightless eyes still expressing his shock at the realization that his life had been extinguished by an ally.

 

“Traitors!” one of the other men cried in anguish. 

 

“Protect the Queen!” Treville’s voice was too hoarse to be heard over the clash of swords and the cries of the wounded. The bandits had obviously been well acquainted with their  conspirators among the Queen’s guard. The entire operation had been carefully planned.

 

The King had declared himself too ill to attend the traditional Ash Wednesday service at Chartres Cathedral, and had insisted that Anne travel there instead. Treville thought it more likely that Louis simply wanted Anne out of the way so he could spend more time with Milady. Anne had suspected the same thing. However, as she could barely stand the presence of her husband’s mistress, she had swiftly agreed. She had wanted to bring the Dauphin, but the King had immediately objected, citing the unpredictable weather. 

 

_ Had someone planted the idea in the King’s mind? _

_ Had it been Rochefort? _

 

Treville was well aware of the man’s disdain for him and his musketeers. However, he also knew that this was no grounds for accusing the nobleman of high treason. 

The attackers were probably the “True Musketeers”. The group had never been completely eradicated. The men that had attacked them had all been wearing masks. The Captain could swear that he had caught a glimpse of their fleur de lys. 

 

The Captain tried to heave himself up to a sitting position, but pain seared through his body, forcing him to remain motionless on the road. A horse jumped over him. He heard the Queen’s screams, and it gave him the necessary strength to get up and rush in the direction of her coach. He never knew what it was that sent him into dark oblivion.

 

Pain.

He touched the edge of consciousness, and realized that he could barely breathe. His chest seemed to be caught in a vise, which was slowly and ruthlessly squeezing the life out of him.

 

No! He could not just die here on the road and leave the Queen without any hope of being rescued. She was not expected back in Paris for at least a week. No one would even think to search for her until that period of time that elapsed. The thought of a defenceless woman at the mercy of her captors forced him into action. First he wiggled his fingers, then curled his hands into fists. After a few moments, he hauled himself into a kneeling position. 

 

The pain in his chest almost overwhelmed him. His head throbbed unmercifully. He slowly opened his eyes, wincing when he saw his lifeless men lying on road. He had failed. Once again, he had failed his soldiers. He had failed Her Majesty. He had failed his King.

 

A shadow came over him, followed by the touch of a silky nose. His stallion nuzzled his face, then nibbled his hair, urging him to get up. 

 

_ If only I could haul myself into the saddle…  _

 

But what good would it do? He could not pursue the bandits. He would never be able to catch up with them. Even if it were possible, there was no way he could take them on in a fight. 

 

He doubted he could make it to Paris. But his best men were not so far away. In the last letter that Philippe had delivered, Aramis had mentioned that even though Athos’ condition was still a bit of a concern, he thought they would be be fit to return to full duty in two weeks. Treville had decided to give them three weeks before they he would ask them to report to the garrison. 

 

But in this situation, they were his only hope. The Queen’s only hope.  _ If she has not already been murdered. _

 

He did not see her any sign of her dress, so he assumed that she had been taken. He hoped that was the case. Obviously, it was quite possible that the King would execute him if a demand for ransom reached him. Ransom would be the only reason to kidnap Anne rather than kill her immediately. 

 

Treville fastened his doublet more tightly, hoping that it would prevent further blood loss. He feared that if he tried to loosen it in order to fashion a makeshift bandage, he would lose too much blood in the process.

 

He whistled for his horse, and grabbed its reins the minute the animal lowered his head towards him. Slowly, he began to pull himself up by the reins. His stallion waited patiently. Finally, the Captain managed to stand up, leaning heavily on the animal. He lowered the stirrup in order to put his foot in it more easily. He braced himself for the pain, then seized the horse’s mane and hauled himself up into the saddle. There was no way he could adjust the stirrup at this point, so he used his heels to urge his horse forward. The animal obeyed, but seemed to sense his master’s instability, and kept his pace slow.

 

Treville directed it through the fields, hoping to find the road he vaguely remembered. Each step of the horse resonated through his body, renewing the agony. He could feel his broken rib (or ribs) shifting, sending out new spikes of pain. Sweat bathed his face, while rivulets of it trickled down the skin under his doublet. 

 

He should have written a message and tucked it into his doublet. Then the Inseparables would have found it on his body. He doubted he would remain conscious for much longer.

 

_ Alive much longer.  _

_ I doubt the bullet passed through the lung, as I can still breathe… but my shifting rib may puncture my lung before too long. However, it is more likely that I will die from blood loss. God, please grant me the opportunity to send my men to the Queen’s rescue... _

 

When he slumped over in the saddle, his forehead met the horse’s mane. The stallion’s ears flicked back and forth, communicating his uneasiness. It would not be the first time the faithful horse would have to to carry his unconscious master. 

 

Treville was surprised when the horse whinnied, but even more shocking was that a response was heard. The sound of approaching hooves thundered through the air.

 

The Captain’s hand reached for his gun in a vain attempt to defend himself. He placed his elbow on the horse’s neck, trying to ignore how badly his hand shook. Dark spots were dancing before his eyes. Each time he blinked to disperse them, he found it increasingly difficult to reopen his eyes.

 

Two horses. 

Two riders.

 

They saw him, and urged their animals into a gallop.  They were shouting something, their horses devouring the distance that separated them. He still could not identify their faces or voices. The foggy wall between them became darker and darker. Then it swallowed him completely--at the exact moment that the muzzle of his weapon touched one of the newcomers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

The marksman eluded his fist with the ease of a dancer. He attempted a kick next, only to have his target somehow dodge it.  But he knew that his brother had to attack him. To do that, he had to cut the distance between them. And that was all the big man needed.

 

Aramis made a wild attempt to reach him. He even managed to make contact for a moment, but the blow was more of a soft caress.

 

Porthos’ laugh boomed across the courtyard. “Stop tickling me!”  

 

His brother made a face in response, but his eyes were shining. He attacked once more. This time, he met with more success, but he also paid a price. As the big man grappled with him, they fell to the ground, with Porthos landing on top. 

Aramis attempted to wriggle out from beneath him, but Porthos pinned him down with his knee.  An instant later, one big hand was around his brother’s throat, while the other held down his opponent’s left arm. Aramis’ right arm was already pinned underneath the medic. 

 

The dark skinned musketeer grinned. “Yield.” Each time they practiced hand to hand combat, he saw Aramis recover a little more of his agility and speed.

 

At the beginning, Porthos had been disheartened by how easy it was to defeat his weakened  brother. He had to remind himself that Aramis had never been an even match for him in this sort of fight. The question had always been how long he would last. However, Porthos had been reassured by the fact that the closeness of their bodies had not triggered any horrible memories for the marksman.

 

“Mis, I don’t want to hurt you, but if I put all my weight on you, you’ll be crushed!”

 

The medic seemed to consider his options for a moment, then simply nodded in acknowledgement of his defeat. Porthos released him, then stood up. He offered his brother his hand and Aramis accepted.  Once he had been hauled to his feet, the marksman glanced up at Porthos, eager for another chance to best his friend. “Swords?”

 

Porthos looked him over closely, assessing his condition. Aramis was obviously tired, but did not appear spent. Still, Porthos did not plan to press him to the point of collapse.

 

“What about a race on the horses? Let’s do that first, then we’ll take up our swords.”

 

Aramis, his breathing having returned to normal, shook his head.  “No, swords first.” He grinned. “After a ride, it might be difficult for me to focus on a fight--and I intend to defeat you!” 

 

They saluted each other with their swords, then crossed them. Soon, they were entangled in a frenetic duel. The dark skinned musketeer’s main goal was to see how much stamina Aramis had at this point in his recovery. He was relentless in his attacks, allowing no chance for the marksman to relax.  It was a complete shock when he suddenly felt the tip of the Spaniard’s blade between his ribs. Aramis was grinning like a madman. However, his dark eyes showed worry, with only a small hint of satisfaction. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asked.

 

“That was too easy. Did you let me win?” the marksman asked seriously.

 

“No! I was focused on tiring you out, and let my guard down. I should have paid more attention. Come on, the horses won’t race on their own!”

 

“They will if we give them the opportunity,” Aramis replied with a smile, following his brother to the stables. 

 

The horses whinnied happily at the sight of their masters, and Orage nuzzled Aramis’ hair.

 

The marksman laughed, and gave her something to eat. Aramis and d’Artagnan seemed to be competing to see who could spoil his horse the most. 

 

Porthos watched as his brother readied his mount. Fortunately, Aramis was now strong enough to handle the weight of his saddle.

 

Aware of his friend’s hovering, the medic cast a quizzical glance at him as he swung into the saddle. Porthos mounted Vent, and followed him without a word.

 

The day seemed quite warm for the season. The sky was clear, and the cold winter sun seemed to be trying to convince itself that it was already spring. 

 

A wide path led from the estate gardens through a small forest, finally opening onto a broad expanse of pastures and fields. It was the perfect place for a long race. 

 

They galloped through the dry grass, and headed towards a lonely tree that stood on a small rise. The hill offered a view of the empty fields. It was hard to believe that in just a month, they would be full of people tending to their crops. 

 

Aramis reached the tree first. But instead of turning around triumphantly, he pulled his horse to a stop, his gaze focused on something in the view that spread out below them. It took Porthos a few moments to join him, but Aramis did not move.

 

“Mis?” Porthos eyes scanned the landscape. He spied a few rabbits, and found himself recalling the delicious rabbit stew that Constance had made a few days ago. 

 

“A rider, “Aramis muttered.  “Heading in the direction of the estate.”

 

Porthos frowned. “Philippe told us he wouldn’t be back until next week.” Squinting, he saw a  moving shape below them.

 

“We should check it out.” Aramis spurred his horse into a light canter, and headed towards the rider. 

 

Porthos followed him. They were close enough now that he could make out the figure of a man on horseback. Something was clearly amiss. The rider seemed to be barely holding on to his mount.

 

Aramis sped up, his curse muffled by the wind.

 

Porthos followed close behind, furious with his brother for being so impulsive.  _ What if this is a trap?!  _

 

_ Show us a bandit pretending to be wounded, and Aramis will fall for it every time.  Sometimes he is too compassionate for his own good. _

 

“Captain!!!”  Aramis’ cry of astonishment contained an unmistakable note of horror.

 

Something was terribly wrong. 

 

Aramis barely had time to pull to a stop.  Porthos, leaping onto the other horse to keep the rider... _ their Captain _ … in the saddle, caught a glimpse of a gun touching his brother’s chest.

 

Treville was unconscious. Porthos circled his arms around his commander’s chest. His heart sank when he felt the man’s doublet, and found it soaked. 

 

He glanced at his companion nervously. “Aramis?”  

 

The marksman’s hand shot up to the Captain’s neck. Before Aramis spoke, Porthos knew what he would hear. 

 

“It’s bad. We need to reach the estate immediately.”

 

Although those words chilled him to the bone, the dark skinned musketeer wasted no time in nudging the Captain’s stallion into a gallop. He trusted that Aramis would take up Vent’s reins, and bring his horse back to the estate. 

 

Treville was a dead weight in his arms. Porthos’ heart was beating frantically. What had happened? How seriously was their leader was injured? 

 

After they passed through the gate to the estate, Aramis overtook him. He knew that the medic would be in a rush to ready his medical tools. The only reason the Spaniard had brought up the rear until now was to secure their safety. They had no way of knowing who was threatening them. 

 

When Porthos reached the inner courtyard, Athos was waiting for him, ready to help.

 

“Aramis is in the dining room. That table suits him the best.” The swordsman did not ask any questions. Porthos assumed that he had already asked Aramis a few, but had not received an answer--because they had none to give.

 

They could only guess that the Captain had come to inform of a mission. However, he had not come from the direction of Paris.

 

Athos steadied Treville as Porthos jumped off the horse.  The big man then took his commander gently in his arms. The movement caused the Captain to moan softly.

 

“You’re safe, Captain,” he murmured, not sure if the man could hear him. 

 

Athos led them through several doors. A short while later, they reached the brightly lit room. The precious carpet had been rolled up and shoved against one of the walls. A candelabra sat on the table, along with a bucket of water and an old bottle of brandy. Aramis’ fingerprints were clearly visible in the dust that covered the bottle. 

 

“Put him here!” Aramis ordered. His doublet was off, and he had already rolled up his shirt sleeves.

 

Porthos obeyed, then stood near the head of the unconscious man. 

 

Athos glanced at the big man. “What happened?”

 

“No idea. When we found him, he was riding in this direction.” While he spoke, his eyes did not leave Aramis’ hands, which were busy unfastening Treville’s doublet. The medic’s jaw tensed when he reached the shirt, only to find soaked in blood. He quickly cut the linen with his dagger, and stripped the garment off.

 

“Sit him up.” 

 

As Porthos held their unconscious patient, Aramis quickly scanned the Captain’s back.

 

“You can lie him down,” he muttered. 

 

Porthos swore softly. _ No exit wound.  _

 

_ “ _ I need to remove the bullet. Hold him still.”

 

Porthos searched his brother’s face for any sign of hope, but Aramis was completely focused on the wound. His expression and gestures were devoid of any emotion. Porthos knew that concentration was the medic’s defense against doubt and fear. _The more serious the wound is, the more focused_ _he is._

 

Aramis started to irrigate the wound with copious amount of water, struggling to see anything amidst the blood pooling at the site. The floor was soon slick with a stream of bloody water.

 

“Constance, I need more light.” Aramis said tersely. The woman came closer, momentarily blocking Porthos’ view.

 

Porthos turned his eyes back to the Captain’s face, and froze when he saw a pair of blue eyes staring up at him.

 

“Captain, you’re safe.” he said. Aramis’ head snapped up.

 

“You’ll be fine, Captain,” the medic said quietly. 

 

Porthos tried to estimate how much truth, if any, was in that statement. It seemed that their commander was in too much pain to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. His eyes were unfocused.

 

“Give him some wine!” the medic ordered.

 

Porthos reached for the bottle, but the Captain’s hand shot out and seized his arm.

 

“The queen…. They have the queen…” His voice was barely audible.

 

“Who?”

 

“True…. Red Guard with them...Chartres…”

 

“You were travelling to Chartres?” Athos asked, his voice matter of fact.

The Captain gave them a slight nod, then rasped, “Don’t waste any time! Save her!” Tightening his grip on Porthos’ hand, he tried to lift himself up, but the attempt only caused him to gasp in pain. 

 

“Don’t move,” Aramis said gruffly. He circled around the table to stand next to Porthos, and his eyes met the Captain’s.

 

“We’ll find her. But right now, I need to take care of you. And don’t you dare call it a waste of time, Captain!  However, if you have any information to give us, I suggest that you do it now. I don’t plan for you to be conscious when I retrieve the bullet.” 

 

The marksman was deathly pale, but his voice was calm and steady. 

 

Captain was silent as he searched his memory for anything that could be of use to them. Finally, he closed his eyes in defeat. “There is nothing I can tell you.”

 

This time, he did not protest when Porthos put his arm under his shoulders and lifted him up. The instant that the bottle of wine touched his lips, he took several large gulps, probably unaware that he was searching for the relief of oblivion.

 

“Aramis, do you need us to assist you?” Athos asked. 

 

The medic hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Porthos and Constance will be enough.” Athos nodded, and stepped back. 

 

Aramis resumed his place at the side of a table, and took in a deep breath. He turned to Constance. “Release the pressure.”

 

The Captain stiffened when Aramis started to work. Porthos put his hands on Treville’s arms to hold him still. He surmised that pain would soon overwhelm the injured man.

 

The Captain tried to remain composed, but just as the big man predicted, he was caught in that terrible state where he could still sense pain, and could remain neither motionless nor silent.

 

A cry of pain from Treville sent a shudder through Porthos, but he had to focus on keeping his commander still. He hated the times when he had to use his strength against his friends...or his leader.

 

Every second seemed to stretch into hours. The Captain choked on his cries, his eyes squeezed shut while his trusted medic tortured him. 

 

Suddenly, Porthos felt the Captain go limp under his hands. Panic gripped his heart, and he barely noticed Constance slip her hand out from beneath the Captain’s lax fingers. She felt for the pulse at his wrist, then nodded in relief. Porthos looked at her with respect. He suspected that her hand must have been half-crushed by the Captain’s desperate grip.

 

A sickening, sucking sound announced the removal of the bullet.  Aramis began to irrigate the wound with copious amounts of old brandy. Its rich scent was effective at masking the pungent smell of blood and sweat.  Treville grimaced, and moaned softly. It seemed as if oblivion had not succeeded in blocking all the pain that the medic was inflicting on his body.

 

Finally, Aramis was ready to close the wound. Porthos felt a bit sick as he watched the medic bury the blood-stained needle in the Captain’s flesh. Meanwhile, Constance turned her attention to preparing an herbal poultice in the mortar. She added a few drops of an aromatic oil, mixed it thoroughly, then placed it next to Aramis. He gave her a nod of thanks, then applied it to the wound.

 

“Porthos, sit him up so I can bandage him.” Aramis’ voice was still devoid of emotion. Porthos wondered if the reason for his friend’s stoic demeanor was the Captain’s wound or the news of Queen’s capture. He lifted up Treville, and noticed that Aramis avoided his gaze.

 

When the wound was dressed, Porthos asked if he was should to move the Captain to a bed. 

 

Aramis nodded.

 

“Just give me a moment to get the bed ready.” Constance slipped out of the room.

 

“Aramis, how is he?” Athos voice was low enough to conceal the anguish that he was likely feeling.

 

The medic lifted his head.

 

“The bullet broke two ribs, but the impact served to halt its path. Luckily, the lung is unscathed.”

 

Porthos felt as if he could finally breathe easily again. 

 

“But the news is not all good. The wound was left untended for far too long. He has lost quite a bit of blood, and the risk of infection is high.”

 

“But he did regain consciousness, didn’t he?” d’Artagnan asked uneasily. 

 

“He did… but that was before he lost more blood.” Aramis gestured towards the blood that was slowly dripping from the table. “The next two or three days will be crucial. If we are able to prevent an infection, he has a good chance of surviving.”

 

Athos nodded, accepting the answer he’d been given. 

 

Aramis turned to him. “I thought you had already left.”

 

“I had to wait, because I need Porthos to come with me,” Athos replied.

 

To Aramis, this sounded like  _ I had to wait, because I needed to know the outcome of the surgery.   _ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Constance enter the room once again.

 

“D’Artagnan will come as well,” the lieutenant continued. “You are to stay as long as the Captain needs you. I’ll send a message to the garrison, asking for reinforcements to be sent here. I’ll try to send word to let you know where we’ve gone. I’ll use the usual code.”

 

“You cannot be sure that a message will ever reach the garrison,” Aramis replied grimly. 

 

“I’ll take it,” Constance offered. 

 

Athos shook his head. “No, it’s too dangerous.”

 

“It makes sense,” she said firmly. “I can’t be bribed...and I can fight. I’m more likely to survive than a boy from one of the local villages.” She smiled. “And you should know by now that I don’t scare easily.”

 

Athos considered her words for a moment, then relented.

 

“Fine. I’ve already written the letter.  I’ve worded it vaguely, and given just enough information for the men to find their way here. You may let them know that the Captain has been wounded. It would be helpful if they could bring a physician with them.”

 

Constance nodded. “The bed is ready. It’s in the room next to the one you have been using.”

 

Porthos carried Treville to the chamber, and placed him carefully on the bed. There was a candle on the small table near the bed, along with a bottle of wine. Constance had also left a  jar that contained the rest of the poultice.

 

Aramis gave her a grateful smile, and sat down on the chair next to the bed. He poured himself a glass of wine, and prepared for a long vigil. His fingers automatically searched Treville’s wrist for his pulse. Porthos guessed that the Spaniard would spend many hours by the bedside.

 

Athos glanced at his comrades.“Time to go, gentlemen.”

 

Porthos went to Aramis, and embraced him. “Take care, brother,” he murmured.

 

The last thing he wanted was to leave Aramis behind, but he knew that the medic’s place was by the side of their wounded Captain. He also knew that his brother was tormented by fear for his beloved queen, and desperately wanted to search for her. However, none of them could take his place at the bedside. They had neither the knowledge nor the skill to care for the critically wounded Treville.  If Aramis had thought any differently, he would have insisted on going with them.

 

Athos placed his hand on Aramis’ arm. “We’ll find her. Focus on keeping him alive.”

 

“I will,” replied the medic, his voice betraying his emotions. “Stay safe.”

 

Athos held his gaze for a moment, then nodded, and prepared to leave. 

 

As he passed Constance, he murmured, “I’ll go get your horse ready.”

 

Porthos doubted the young woman had heard anything. She was in d’Artagnan’s arms, lost in a passionate kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments!!! They mean a lot for me!  
> Special thanks to my awesome Beta - Riversidewren


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's POV

Anne

 

“Can we speak freely, sir?” a man asked cautiously. His voice seemed familiar, but she could not identify the speaker. A Red Guard. She had never paid much attention to them. They were somewhat useful, but easily bribed--and that made working with them very dangerous. The typical Red Guard was quite dim and incompetent...and she could not tolerate the way they treated women. 

 

“Yes. Go ahead!” came the impatient reply. “I’m waiting for your report.” That voice she knew--the Red Guard lieutenant Lorac. She quite disliked the man, so the idea of listening in on his secret conversation pleased her.  She heard the sound of a glass being placed on the table. 

 

“It’s done, sir. Treville and his men are dead. We are ready to get her out of the country. The ship is waiting in Le Havre.”

 

“Already waiting? Why?”

 

“By explicit order. The journey will take some time.”

 

“That’s not our problem. We have to proceed with the plan.”

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

Anne froze. As she thought over the snatches of conversation she had heard, the events of the last few days--and weeks--suddenly fell into place, giving her a clear picture. 

 

If Treville was dead, the only  _ her  _ they could be referring to was the Queen. Milady watched as lieutenant Lorac passed by her hiding place, unaware of her presence. 

 

_ I don't really care for the Queen...however, her disappearance is unlikely to benefit me. The King will likely go in search of a new wife… Anne makes things relatively easy, as she is too proud to pay too much attention to me…  _

 

Milady slowly emerged into the empty corridor. Anne’s fate was not the only factor which influenced her. She had been humiliated, and she craved revenge. She had no real proof that Rochefort was involved. However, his sudden departure from court, and the dramatic show he had made about receiving a letter from his dying mother, had made her suspicious. She had not believed a word of the letter, though it had been written with a flowing, feminine hand.

 

Louis would never believe her.  He was still a child who was without a father and estranged from his mother. The King had never truly learned to live on his own. He had looked up to the Cardinal as a father figure, and after Richelieu’s demise, he had tried to cling to Treville. When rejected, he had put his whole trust in Rochefort--despite the fact that he had a faithful, loyal person at his side--his wife. Never once had he recognized her. He did not deserve her. 

 

A plan started to form in Milady’s mind, and she hastened her pace. She needed time before dinner to change her dress and freshen her makeup.

 

The servants were waiting to help her. She gave them their instructions, then let them do  their work with her hair, corset, and dress. Meanwhile, her clever mind was refining her plan. 

 

First, she needed to wear out the King. That would not be so difficult, as his stamina had not improved. To be honest, she actually felt that he his strength had waned a bit.   _ I really should pay more attention to this. Someone could be using a slow-acting poison on Louis. _

 

Even if she was right in her suspicion about Rochefort, what could she do? The King had made it clear in the past that he did not appreciate receiving intelligence from his lover. Her only role was to be naive, silly, and completely in awe of him. So she played the part that the King expected.  The luxurious life that she led in the palace was well worth it.

 

If Constance were here, she could have given some hints to the Queen’s confidant. Madame Bonacieux was a brave and independent woman, and she had some degree of influence over the damn musketeers, whose duty it was to assure the King’s safety. 

 

_ But obviously, I have to do their work for them!  _

 

The King arrived at his private dining room at the same moment she did. The chamber was richly decorated, and conveniently stood adjacent to the royal bedchamber.  She curtsied, and he took her hand in his.

 

“My darling! It’s so good to see you!” His eyes dropped to her breasts, and remained there. “You’re as gorgeous as ever.”

 

Resisting the impulse to roll her eyes, she summoned her most seductive smile.

 

“In your presence, Your Majesty, a woman cannot help but flourish.”

 

A smug grin spread across his face.  “Oh, and so intelligent!”

 

“You’re too generous, Sire,” she whispered, kissing his hand. Her tongue caressed his fingers in the most provocative way possible. 

 

He shivered, murmuring her name. In that moment, she knew she had won. He would accept any and all pleasure that she offered him. 

 

_ He’s nothing but a spoiled child. I am just another plaything… _

 

Completely losing himself in his desire, he gasped, “You are a wonder, Anne.”

 

“You are the lover every woman dreams of,” she purred.

 

_ In their worst nightmares _ , she thought with disgust. He was one of the dullest lovers she had ever had.

 

“If only my Queen thought the same…” he moaned.

 

“You must forgive her, Sire. She was raised to perform her wifely duty and give you an heir, not to master the art of physical pleasure,” she murmured, her voice silky. Then she turned her attention to focusing on making him forget everything. 

 

_ The poor Queen knew nothing about lovemaking when she married you, you idiot! It was your duty to teach her the secrets of the bedroom. But how could you possibly teach anyone to find her own satisfaction when you are always so focused on yourself? I can’t recall ever being with another man who is such a selfish lover! _

 

Her thoughts went back to her husband. How attentive he had been! 

 

_ Why do I hate him so much?  _

_ Because I still miss him… _

 

The King gasped her name in ecstasy, and she swallowed her bitter tears. She waited for him to fall asleep, then slipped from the bed. She had already hidden some clothes in the dining room. It did not take her much time to change into the clothes of a man and leave the palace. 

 

She went directly to the stables, careful to elude the musketeer patrols. They were well aware she was the King’s mistress. The last thing she needed at this point was to be questioned as to why she was out roaming the grounds in the middle of the night, dressed in men’s clothes.

 

Milady entered the part of the stables used for the messengers’ mounts, and selected a horse. A sleepy stable boy appeared, hastily bowing when he saw her.

 

“What can I do for you, Madam?”

 

She looked at him, her expression full of distress. “I need a fast horse. I have received a letter informing me that my dear sister is dying. I cannot leave her to die alone! The  only problem is that the King is too concerned about my safety to let me go….but I must!”

 

Tears filled her eyes.  She had the memory safely locked away in her brain, but let it out  whenever she needed to gain someone’s sympathy by crying.

 

_ Olivier so furious and merciless when he found his brother dying in my arms. The same brother who had just tried to rape me… Olivier’s fury, my lame excuses, my useless attempts to make him understand what really had happened… The anger in his eyes, the hatred, the disdain. It makes me cry every time _

 

“Of course, Madam.  I’ll get the horse ready immediately--and if you will need to change horses along the way, I can give you a list of places where that can be done.”

 

“Yes, please,” she whispered, wiping the tears from her eyes.

 

The boy did his best. Within ten minutes, she was riding away from the palace. A list of inns that provided exchange horses was safely tucked away in her saddlebag.

 

_ Why don’t the musketeers ever use such places?  Are they too attached to their horses?  _

_ Or are their animals trained differently? _

 

She did not like the fact that she was even thinking about the musketeers. She hated every second she spent thinking about the musketeers or about Athos--even if she was riding to meet him. 

 

However, in the dark winter night, her unwanted thoughts and memories seemed to be her only companion. Fortunately, the roads near the capital were well maintained, and one could travel in darkness without fear of a horse stumbling.

 

She breathed in the crisp air. Glancing up at the cloudless sky, she bit her lip savagely at the painful memory. She saw herself lying in the grass in Olivier’s arms as they gazed up at the stars. She loved it when he called the constellations by their strange, poetic names. The passion in his low voice made each one sound like an intimate caress. She wanted to forget his touch on her skin as much as she missed it. No one had never treasured her the way Olivier had. 

 

_ But if he had really treasured you, he would have listened to you. _

_ He would have given you the chance to explain--and he would have believed you. _

 

She urged the horse into a gallop, wanting to blame her tears on the rough rush of the air on her face.

 

It was near dawn when she reached the first inn that the stable boy had told her about. She entered, and demanded a new horse. The innkeeper, a plump man in early fifties, appeared to be too sleepy to ask any questions. However, there was something suspicious in his manner...she could see unspoken fear in his eyes, as well a slight tremor in his hands. 

 

“You seem troubled…” she said, careful to put a note of compassion in her voice. 

 

“The roads are dangerous my lady,” he murmured, shifting uncomfortably.

 

“Is there a specific danger I should be aware of?” she asked, her eyes widening in mock terror.

 

“There are bandits who are attacking travellers. A large group made its appearance two days ago.”

 

Bandits were always more active at the end of winter, when food supplies were running short.

 

“You should send a message to the nearest town to ask for some guards,” she told him. He glanced at her once more, and she felt there was something he was not telling her. 

 

“And get my family killed?!”

 

“So why are you telling me about it?”

 

“You’re a woman. I just felt I needed to warn you.”

 

_ A woman using the King’s messenger horses _ . She could carry the message further. 

 

“Can you tell me more about the threat?”

 

“Yes… they have local guides...and some of them are masked.” He lowered his voice, and said quietly,  ”I cannot tell you any more, Madam. Your horse will be ready in ten minutes. May I offer you some hot broth and fresh bread in the meantime?”

 

She accepted, but left as soon as she could. Turning at the doorstep, she gave him a sad smile.  “Thank you.”  

 

“May God keep you safe, my lady.”

 

_ Fortunately, I know how to keep myself safe.  _

_ I doubt God wants to have anything to do with me. _

 

She left the inn. The sky to the east was already reddening. The landscape still lay submerged in sleep. Tendrils of fog curled over the fields. She urged her horse forward, and the animal obeyed instantly.

 

_ Why are the musketeers more attached to their horses than to their wives? _

_ What a stupid thought! Olivier wasn’t a musketeer back then.  _

_ Why can’t I forget him?  _

 

She cursed under her breath, and kicked her horse into a gallop, trying to forget by losing herself in the pace. She passed a few riders and carts, but nobody tried to stop her. After all, she galloping along the road in a black cloak, clearly hiding a weapon. No one in their right mind would even consider detaining her. 

 

Many people started out on the road before dawn in order to take advantage of the short amount of daylight. However, she doubted any were riding during the night. After all, to do so was dangerous--insane, actually. And yet she would do it again.  She needed to return to Paris….to the King. 

 

_ Provided that Athos doesn’t kill me. However, I’m not in Paris, so he should not feel the urge to keep his word. _

 

She hoped Louis would not be too upset with her. If her royal lover was angry with her for absence, she doubted that saving the Queen would make any difference. She had had the forethought to leave a book about the Spanish Armada on the night table, along with a few plans for model ships. She could only hope that the King would focus on them. He loved to spend time building his small, useless boats. 

 

_ What a waste of time...just like seamstresses making clothes for dolls.  _

 

Milady reached the crossroads. There, the main road met several smaller trails leading into the fields and the nearby forest. She chose one of the trails that she recognized from a map she had seen some time ago, and followed it through the empty landscape. She hated the countryside at this time of the year. Everything seemed dead and barren. 

 

The mud on the road was very effective at slowing her down. She cursed under her breath, then smiled wickedly. Here she could curse as much as she liked. She did not have to pretend to be someone else.

 

_ Someone else?  _

_ Who am I really?  _

_ I don’t think I even know anymore.  _

_ I only know whom I wished to be… _

 

The sun had started to cast long shadows when a distant shot alarmed her. She stopped to listen to the sounds. Another shot followed, and then after a longer while two more. Her horse shifted uneasily beneath her, his ears pinned back against his head.

 

A fight. Not a hunt. 

 

_ Or rather, a hunt for a human being. An armed human being.  _

 

Milady urged her horse back into a gallop. She needed to hurry, as she knew that the last part of her journey had to be made at a slow, cautious pace. To do otherwise would be to risk instant discovery. She passed through the gate that led to a large estate. No more shots were heard, and her horse calmed down a bit. She stopped near the fountain in the garden, trying to assess the situation. From this vantage point, she had a good view of the manor house, which was situated a bit lower.

 

No people were visible outside the building, but she did spot four horses. She cautiously approached a row of evergreen bushes. Dismounting, she tied her horse to a small leafless tree, hoping it would would not easily be seen. Then she set off stealthily, heading in the direction of the buildings. 

 

The dusk was on her side. If anyone was watching the grounds, it would be difficult to distinguish her shadow from the dark shapes of plants and sculptures. She passed by a masked body that had been shot in the head. She came across another body near the horses. He had been shot through the heart.  With this information, it was not difficult to figure out from which window the shots had been fired.

 

Finally, she reached the door. She opened it slowly, then slipped inside. 

 

She leaned against the wall, straining her ears to pick up any sound. There was only silence. The fight must have been over some time ago. She quietly made her way towards the room where she suspected the marksman was. She knew all too well who the marksman was--and she also knew that he would listen to her. He seemed to be a man who understood the value of good information, irrespective of the source.

 

Reaching the door, she opened it slowly, putting herself in a position where she would not risk being shot. After a few moments, she glanced inside, then froze. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you for betaing :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis   
  


Silence slowly penetrated his soul. A silence broken only by Treville’s labored breathing. Aramis knew all too well how painful it was to breathe with broken ribs. He adjusted the Captain into a more upright position, then cursed when he realized that his commander’s skin was warmer.

 

He checked on the wound. At this stage, it was impossible to tell if the swelling and redness around the wound were due to infection or merely to the rough handling that been necessary to dig out the bullet. The marksman applied another portion of the poultice, then put a cold rag on the Captain’s forehead and neck. He hated feeling so helpless. His brothers had left him behind, entrusting him with their leader’s life. He could not fail them...and he could not fail Treville.

 

Cold water from the wet cloth trickled down Treville’s face. He shivered, then sluggishly tried to lick the moisture from his lips. The medic took advantage of the opportunity, and tried to coax his commander into drinking the bitter tea which would help fight off infection. 

 

Captain took a sip, and winced. His eyelids fluttered, and he whispered a word or two. Aramis leaned towards him. 

 

“Please, drink, sir. I know it tastes terrible, but it will help you.”

 

Treville took another sip. Then he slowly opened his eyes. They were bright with fever, his gaze unfocused. 

 

“Don’t waste your time,” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

 

_ Where else would I be? Saving my Anne. But no--I am not wasting my time!  _

 

“Caring for you is not a waste of time,” Aramis replied calmly, willing himself to rein in his anxiety and fury. 

 

“I saw him. I saw his wounds… those empty eye sockets… I can’t forget them.”

 

Aramis took in a deep breath. He did not doubt that his Captain had seen many atrocities. It was not surprising that the memories would haunt him in the guise of his fevered dreams. Still he was astonished, and somewhat worried, to hear Treville talking about his nightmares. This was not the first time he had tended to his commander. Usually when he ran a high fever, Treville merely mumbled incoherently.

 

“They took his eyes…”

 

_ His eyes. His. Not their. Not the crows pecking out their eyes. Not Savoy.  _

 

“Sir, don’t think about it now. You are injured. You have a fever. When you feel better, the ghosts will return to where they belong- in the past.” The marksman was relieved that his voice sounded normal. His tone, soft and low, was the one he reserved for the wounded he cared for, but was otherwise normal. 

 

“How can you be so forgiving?!”

 

“You are a great commander, and a good man. I know there are things you have done--or failed to do--that you regret. But now is not the time to think about that.”

 

“I’ve failed him. I… can still see him lying there, with the bloody hole in his head…”

 

“Sir, if you are intent upon discussing your memories, may I suggest another topic? Perhaps you can describe what you recall about the men who took the Queen?”

 

The Captain did not reply, and seemed to have fallen asleep. Aramis observed him for a while with concern, and a troubling thought suddenly came to him. The Queen’s captors could be searching for Treville at this very moment. He had seen the faces of the traitors, so he could easily be perceived as a threat which had to be eliminated. 

 

Aramis cast one more quick glance at the wounded man, then rushed to his room to gather his weapons. After that, he went to the dining room, and seized the Captain’s musket and pistols.

 

As he laid the pile of weapons on the floor, he was relieved to see that his patient seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The marksman primed the guns, then carefully positioned them out of the reach of the wounded man. If Treville’s hands started to wander during his hallucinations, the medic did not want them to find.a firearm.

 

_ What if their aim was to kidnap Anne and kill Treville? The Captain has proved his undying loyalty to the King, and that could be enough to sentence him to death…although the True Musketeers seemed to be against Anne, not the King. However, their leader had changed recently, and even his own men were questioning his cruelty. _

 

“Who are you?” Aramis murmured, watching the shadows play on the walls. With only a wounded Treville by his side, they would be easy targets for their enemies...but it could not be helped. In order to rescue Anne, Athos needed Porthos and d’Artagnan’s help...and it was vital that Constance take the message to the garrison.

 

_ My nerves are getting to me. Am I really fit for duty? _

 

Aramis forced himself to take in a deep breath. His fingers ghosted over his favorite pistol as he tried to stay calm. 

 

_ If Anne was in the hands of the True Musketeers… Why had they taken her? They had stated that their goal was to kill her. So why take her alive?! What did their leader really want from her?! _

 

_ To humiliate her. To break her.  _

 

_ NO! _

 

He could not allow her to be hurt. But he was stuck here, tending to his wounded Captain, while Anne was somewhere else, defenceless in the hands of her captors. 

 

Even if they succeeded in rescuing her, would the King accept her back at his side, or would he banish her to a cell in a convent?! Among the nobility, it was not unheard of to do such a thing in order to dispose of a woman who carried the taint of possible abuse. 

 

He was usually able to focus his thoughts on an investigation, but a bedside vigil was not helping to rein in his wandering mind.

 

He stood up, and slowly approached the window, stealing a glance behind the thick curtains. The windows looked out on the garden. They had been careful to close all the curtains in order to keep up the appearance that the house was uninhabited. No one was likely to approach the abandoned estate, but it was better to be cautious. 

 

_ A dog would be nice to have right now. The ones my father had always warned us when strangers were near. _

 

If he were camping out in the woods, he would trust Orage to warn him. But now, even if his mare did go on the alert, he would have no way of knowing.

 

Aramis came back to the Captain. He checked his temperature, and cursed. Treville’s fever was slowly increasing, despite the medic’s best efforts. Aramis flushed the wound with copious amounts of alcohol, then put another poultice on it. He moistened the cloth once again. It was becoming dry much too fast. 

 

“Athos?” Treville rasped.

. 

“No. It’s Aramis.” The medic deliberately lightened his voice.”Captain, you should know that Athos is not really cut out to be a nurse.” 

 

“Where is Athos?”

 

“He went to rescue the Queen.”

 

Treville shivered.

“I failed her. She trusted me, and I let her be taken…”

 

“I’m sure you did everything you could to defend her.”

_ But it was not enough! Not enough to save her! _

 

Treville did not reply. He looked around the room, clearly confused. His eyes finally seemed to focus on Aramis.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Aramis gave him a warm smile. “I am the one skilled in battle medicine.”

 

Treville blinked. It seemed as if the medic’s’ words had not gotten through to him.

 

“Yes… I am sorry it ended like this. I should have known…”

 

The marksman froze. He desperately fought the panic which threatened to overwhelm him.

 

_ Why was his commander apologizing to him for the humiliation he had endured?! There was nothing he could have done to protect him...was there?! _

 

“Athos, please, forgive me.” His surprise at the Captain’s words helped the medic to regain his composure.

 

“What for?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

.

“If I hadn’t sent you away, you could have protected him. Kept him from being taken… after… he was found, there was no chance of keeping him alive. It was only a matter of time…”

 

_ I have to ask Athos about this event. It must have been occurred early in his career, before we started to befriend. Granted, we were separated for a few longer missions, but not long enough to hide an ongoing tragedy. Even if Athos was the one hiding it. _

 

A suicide amongst the musketeers was not a rare event. Those who were traumatized by their service usually took one of two paths. 

 

Those who could still fight in battle often sought honorable death in a fight. Through reckless action and lack of any sense of self-preservation, they usually succeeded. Through some sort of irony that was almost bitterly humorous, he and Athos had probably been the most spectacular failures of this breed.

 

Those who were not fit to fight often turned to their own pistol. In this way, they were finally able to to make their bodies understand what their minds already knew-their lives were over. Treville always allowed them to be buried with honors in the garrison cemetery.

 

“Captain, please drink.”  Aramis touched a cup to his commander’s lips. The injured man blinked and stared at him for a moment. Recognition was absent in his gaze, but he dutifully sipped the tea. It seemed to calm him down a bit, and he finally began to succumb to sleep. 

 

Aramis started to pray for Treville’s health. Latin words easily flowed from his lips, giving him from some respite from his anguished thoughts...until unconsciously, he began to speak Anne's name instead of Treville’s. Pain and fear suddenly destroyed the rhythm of his prayers. Then he heard himself repeating one phrase over and over, in all the languages he knew. “God, please, save her!”

 

A moan interrupted Aramis’ trance. He was at the Captain's side in an instant. He cursed himself when he realized that the cloth on Treville’s forehead was nearly dry. 

 

“Captain?” he murmured..

 

The injured man did not reply, but merely leaned into Aramis’ hand, searching for the relief of his cool touch.

 

“Sorry, but I have to check on your wound,” the medic said apologetically. He knew it would be painful. He found it concerning that Treville did not even flinch when the wound was exposed. Aramis grimaced when he saw the angry skin.

 

Now he was sure. It was indeed infected. Yellow pus was gathering on the puckered edges of the wound. 

 

“I am afraid I have to drain your wound. It will be painful,” he said, his voice low. The Captain did not respond, and the medic’s fear for his patient mounted. He tried to distract himself by laying out the instruments and herbs that he would need. Then he eased the wounded man onto the cot, and laid him flat. He pinned the Captain’s legs under his knees. He needed both of his hands free to work on the injury. 

 

_ Porthos, I need you.  _

 

He started to remove the stitches. This was the easy part, as the pain was minimal. Then he turned his attention to cleaning the wound. He was so focused on the task that he never saw the fist that struck a blow on the side of his face. An instant later, he tasted blood.

He seized Treville's hand, and pressed it between his one of his legs and one of the Captain’s. He managed to block the blow from the other hand easily, as Treville was much weaker on the wounded side. The medic pinned the arm against his patient’s body, and held it in place with his knee. 

 

Only then he could continue draining the wound. The Captain was fighting him, insensible to all of Aramis’ pleas. 

 

The medic meticulously worked on the wound. Once all the pus had been evacuated, he irrigated the wound with a large bottle of brandy. The Captain screamed in pain, and his eyes flew open. He stared at Aramis with trepidation. 

 

“It’s Aramis, Captain. You’re safe. I know this is painful, but I need to tend to your wound. I am sorry.”

 

Treville’s eyes were unfocused and glassy.

“Forgive me,” he rasped.

 

“There is nothing to forgive, sir,” Aramis said softly.

 

He put a mixture of plantain leaves and calendula oil into the wound, and applied a fresh bandage. He would have to monitor the wound closely for bleeding,  but he prefered to postpone closing it. Often such a treatment, followed by delayed closure of the wound, served to stave off infection. Finally finished, he slid a pillow behind the Captain’s head.

 

Aramis was astonished when he realized that behind the curtains, it was well into the afternoon. He decided he needed to eat, so he took a few bites of some bread and cheese. He was not really hungry, but he knew that he needed to give his body some sustenance. Constance would likely return from the garrison tomorrow evening with reinforcements. He had to be ready to ride out immediately once they arrived. 

 

_ If they arrive. If she avoided getting killed on the road, and actually got to Paris. _

 

After an hour, Aramis removed the herbs from the wound and stitched it closed. Then he put more of the herbal mixture on it, and applied a fresh bandage.

 

He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but caring for a wounded, delirious man without any assistance was tiring. Perhaps he was far more less fit than he thought. 

 

He checked on his weapons and prepared some more herbs in case he needed them. After that, only the waiting remained. 

 

When the Captain became restless, Aramis tried to wake him. He was partially successful. Treville was not alert, but was conscious enough to drink a bit of broth, as well as some herbal tea. The medic fervently hoped that he had caught the infection fast enough. The Captain still had a fever, but it had stopped rising. Finally. 

 

Aramis returned to his vigil. He could not deny himself a short nap, but something woke him abruptly. His fingers were resting on the Captain’s wrist, and underneath them, he could feel a steady pulse. He exhaled slowly, and gazed at the injured man, who seemed to still be peacefully asleep. Aramis cocked his head, listening for a moment. A sound from outside caught his attention. He slipped to the window and cautiously peered out. In the dimming light, he was able to discern men on horseback. There were four horses, two with men in the saddle.

 

Everything in him screamed to shoot, but he could not risk injuring his friends. Constance should not be back yet, but still...he could not take the risk. 

 

He opened the window. 

 

“Athos! Ambush!” he shouted. If the men were musketeers, they would have promptly announced themselves. Instead, the riders sought cover. Unfortunately for them, Aramis’ bullets hit them before they found any. 

 

He knew now that two of his enemies were already inside. They did not make him wait long. The door suddenly flew open, and a masked man rushed inside, only to be shot dead. The second one took cover behind the door. Aramis started to hastily reload his pistol. The one that was already primed sat directly in front of him. 

 

As an expert marksman, he could load his pistol without looking. The second the door opened, he took aim. Two shots sounded as one. One bullet hit the wall behind Aramis, while his found his enemy’s heart. 

 

The marksman knew he should check the perimeter of the estate, but he could not leave the Captain. He checked on the dead men in the room. 

 

_ True Musketeers. _

 

He collected their weapons. Apart from that, they had nothing useful on them. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Treville mumbled.

 

“They came for you, sir.”

 

“Are you sure you got them all?”

 

“Fairly sure.”  Aramis was relieved that the Captain seemed somewhat lucid. He deduced that the shots must have jolted the injured man awake. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he could take this opportunity to feed the Captain some broth. 

 

A soft knock interrupted him. He placed one gun on the bed, this time making sure it was within Treville’s reach, then aimed the other pistol at the door. He was careful to take up a position where he was able to shield the Captain with his body.

 

The door opened slowly. He waited, motionless. A slender form slipped in, using the door as a shield. He had anticipated this maneuver, and had positioned himself in just the right spot to aim his pistol. The person froze at the sight of the gun.

 

Milady was standing at the threshold of the door. She slowly raised her gloved hands, her palms open. A dagger clattered to the floor. 

 

Milady was wearing men’s clothes. The dirt and grime of a long journey showed on her garments.

 

She glanced at his pistol, and arched an eyebrow. “Can we talk?”

 

“Why are you here?” 

He spoke coldly, and was careful to keep his gun trained on her.

“You said didn’t work with the True Musketeers.”

 

“And that’s the truth.”  

She cautiously edged into the room. Aramis shifted to track her movements, and she caught a glimpse of Treville.

“I see he is alive after all. So you know that the Queen has been taken.”

 

The marksman was silent for a moment, then lowered his pistol. He did not trust her, but he could guess why the Queen’s demise might not be of benefit to the King’s mistress.

 

She cautiously dropped her arms, and gave him a thoughtful look. “And do you know that they plan to put her on board a ship at Le Havre?”

 

_ No, we didn’t.  _ Despite his attempt to disguise his fear, some degree of shock must have registered on his face. 

 

She continued on, her voice urgent. “I’m certain Rochefort is behind this. My guess is that he wants to take her to Spain. They will say that she has made a narrow escape from horrible abuse at the hands of the French King, and her brother will declare war. Rochefort will return to the King’s side after his supposed visit to his dear mother’s deathbed, and will do whatever it takes to get the Spanish what they want - France on her knees. The King somehow be drugged or poisoned, so that he will be easy to influence. I believe they planned to kill Treville when they took the Queen, but failed.” 

 

Milady paused, and took a deep breath. “You can do whatever you want with this information. I would like to be able to say that I saved your life here or at Fontainebleau, and that because of that, you should trust me. However we both know that I have done no such thing. So, there is nothing I can use in my defense against any accusation of dishonesty.”  She sighed, and appeared uneasy. “Now that I’ve told you, I should go. I must be back in Paris before the King realizes that I’m gone.”

 

“Wait!” Aramis stopped her.

 

_ I cannot leave Treville alone. Constance left only yesterday. Even if she has already reached the garrison, they won’t arrive until tomorrow evening at the earliest. There is no way that my brothers would ever guess that they need to go to Le Havre. _

 

“Sit down for a moment and eat something before you depart. I’m afraid the repast I have to offer you is rather basic, but there is some wine, bread and cheese. Serve yourself. Would you be willing to take a letter to the garrison?”

 

She gave him a sly smile. “I think I can accommodate you...as long as it doesn’t contain an order to execute the messenger.” 

 

Aramis flashed her a grin in return. “Not this time.”  

 

He sat down at a small desk, and reached for a parchment and ink. He needed to put all the information in the note, but in such a way that it could only be understood by his brothers in arms. He recalled an old code, but was not sure if there would be anyone at the garrison who still remembered it. Milady watched him with interest. When he lifted his eyes, he met her gaze. 

 

“What you said...it means that Rochefort works for Spain.”

 

Milady nodded. “Yes. I think there is a reason for the Spanish ambassador’s death. I believe they have lost control of him. They allowed him to escape, but I doubt he’s been following their orders.”  She hesitated for a moment, then said carefully, “There has been some… gossip.”

 

“What gossip?” 

 

“Concerning his obsession with the Queen.”

 

Aramis felt his heart almost stop. 

He spoke, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Rochefort is notorious for his improper--some would say sadistic--treatment of women.”

 

She averted her eyes. “I know.”

 

The way she spoke moved him to compassion. She might be his enemy, but everything in him screamed for him to defend her. Especially against Rochefort. 

 

She met his gaze once again, and asked, “Do you know how Richelieu died?” 

 

“No. I never thought to ask about the details. We were on a mission.”

 

_ And then I discovered that he had murdered Adele. _

 

“I see.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I have often wondered if there was any connection between his death and Rochefort’s escape.”

 

He shrugged.  “Even if he died at the hands of the Spanish, there is no way that Rochefort killed him. We can only speculate.”

 

He glanced at the Captain, who was still asleep. They were speaking quietly, so he had no fear that they would wake up his patient.

 

She finished her wine, then stood up. “Well, have you finished your letter? I don't have all night.”

 

He shook his head, and picked his pen again. After a moment of hesitation, he coded the message in the guise of a standard patrol report. There was one person who he knew would be able to decode it...and the marksman was almost certain that he would be at the garrison.

 

“Give it to Serge. If Constance did not make it to Paris, you will have to tell him who was kidnapped.”

 

She knew how delicate the matter was...at least, he hoped she did. 

 

He finished the letter, then sealed it carefully before giving it to her. 

 

“Stay safe,” he murmured, truly meaning it. She offered him a quick smile, and he felt she understood that he was being sincere. Then she left. 

 

He watched through the window as she took her horse and disappeared into the night.

 

He envied the opportunity she had to act. He felt so helpless, shut away at the estate and unable to take part in the mission to rescue the woman he loved.  

 

He sighed heavily, then returned to his chair at the bedside. He touched the Captain's forehead in order to check his temperature. It was still too high for his liking.

 

“An unexpected ally.” 

Treville’s hoarse voice surprised him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

The three men raced towards the tree where Porthos and Aramis had found the Captain. The musketeers had no problem following the hoofprints of Treville’s horse from there. They were still clearly visible on the muddy ground.

 

_ We can see them at the moment.  But night will soon be upon us. _

 

Athos readied a torch. They had hoped to find the site of the skirmish before sunset, as it would be a challenge to search for the area in the dark. The dimming light had already made it quite difficult to follow the hoofprints. They were forced to go at a much slower pace. At times, d’Artagnan had to dismount in order to check the trail. 

 

Aramis had been right in surmising that the Captain’s wounds had gone untended for some time. Athos knew that the road was quite far from the estate. That distance had likely been to their advantage. In fact, it was probably the main reason they had been able to stay there for some time without being disturbed.

 

A row of leafless trees finally revealed the presence of the road. They could hear the squawks of scavenging birds - possibly crows. Athos glanced at Porthos, and could tell that his brother was thinking the same thing. The big man’s dark eyes betrayed his relief that their marksman was not with them. 

 

They cautiously approached the curve in the road. It was an ideal place for an ambush. The scent of blood and fresh corpses hung in the air. The fight had taken place several hours ago, and the smell of gunpowder had long since been dispersed by the wind. 

 

When he spied the bodies, the swordsman signalled for them to halt. The dead men were scattered on the road. Some lay in the sparse vegetation that surrounded it. The musketeers dismounted, and went to check on the dead. 

 

Athos knelt next to a body that was draped in a blue cloak. He gently touched the cold face, and recognized the man as one of them. As he closed the sightless eyes that stared up at him, Athos remembered that this particular musketeer had been commissioned three years ago. He could not recall if he had ever spoken with the man.

 

“I’ll do my best to see you buried in the garrison cemetery,” he promised. 

 

“Athos!” 

 

D’Artagnan’s cry caused the lieutenant to unsheath his sword. As the ring of his blade still hung in the air, he prepared to defend his brother. However, Athos soon saw that d’Artagnan had not been attacked. The boy was kneeling near a musketeer’s body. Sliding his sword back into his scabbard, the older man went to join his protege.

 

Athos recognized Henri at once. The man was an excellent soldier.  However, although he was courageous, he lacked Aramis’ recklessness. Henri was definitely not the type to think outside the box. He was a follower rather than a leader - but he embodied the loyalty and bravery that commanders cherished. 

 

In the flickering torchlight, Athos could have sworn that he saw the victim’s eyelids flutter.

 

The Gascon’s fingers searched for a pulse at the wounded musketeer’s neck. He glanced up at Athos. “He’s still alive.”

 

“Henri?”  Athos knelt on the other side of the injured man. He started to unbutton the musketeer’s doublet. The garment was stained crimson with blood. The man groaned, and tried to elude Athos’ hands. 

 

“Open your eyes!” the lieutenant ordered. “You must tell us what happened here!”

 

The injured man blinked sluggishly, his weakened body slow to obey. Athos gently touched a water skin to his lips. “Small sips.”

 

_ If only Aramis were here… _

 

Henri drank a little water. 

 

“They took the Queen!” he whispered.

 

“Where did they go?”

 

“They rode off down the road… no idea where they went after that…”  

He gasped in pain. 

 

“Did you recognize the attackers?”

 

Henri tried to smile. It was a grotesque sight. His pale face was covered with splattered blood, which appeared nearly black in the torchlight. 

 

“Some men were masked. And others… Red Guards. Traitors! Canvac and others… only the newly recruited children fought side by side with us... “

 

“Recruited children…?” Athos echoed, exchanging a look with d’Artagnan.

 

But Henri did not want to waste his breath talking about the Red Guards. 

“Wanted her alive. Dauphin in Paris,” he rasped.

 

Athos put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done well. We’ll take you to the nearest inn.” Having finally succeeded in unbuttoning the wounded musketeer’s doublet, he ripped open his bloodied shirt. An ugly gash crossed the man’s chest. Anticipating his lieutenant’s request, d’Artagnan handed him a bandage. Athos gave him a grateful nod. 

 

Henri needed professional help. Athos desperately wished that Aramis was with them.

 

He glanced up at the big man. “Porthos, we need to take him to the nearest inn.”

 

“Then we should get on the road. There are no other survivors, and there is no sign of the Queen’s coach. They must have taken it with them.”

 

“I expect they’ve abandoned it by now,” Athos murmured.

 

After an hour’s ride at a fast pace, they reached an inn. Athos paid the innkeeper in advance for Henri’s care. 

 

As the swordsman prepared to leave, he asked. “Monsieur, did you happen to see a fancy coach pass by recently?” 

 

After having received such a generous payment, the innkeeper was more than happy to answer the question.  “Yes, sir. Such a coach did pass our humble establishment a number of hours ago. Unfortunately, it did not stop, but continued on towards Chartres.”

 

Athos did not expect any more information to be forthcoming. He thanked the man, and handed him an envelope that contained a coded message for Aramis. 

 

“It is likely that more musketeers will follow us. Please give them this letter, and tell them about our injured comrade.”

 

They left, and rode on by the light of the torches. D’Artagnan, who was in the lead, suddenly signaled for them to stop. 

 

He dismounted, and inspected the trail more closely. 

 

“The coach went this way.” He pointed at a trail which entered the forest.

 

Athos motioned for them to follow it, but he already knew what they would find. They continued on the road until it caught the edge of a deep ravine. The wheel tracks led to the edge, but dense vegetation below hid any trace of the coach. 

 

“I’ll go take a look,” said d’Artagnan. Dismounting, he carefully made his way down the edge of the ravine.

 

“I’m guessing he will find the coach empty,” muttered Porthos.

 

“I expect so. They probably had a cart waiting. It would be too dangerous to travel in a luxurious coach with the Queen as a captive - even if she was well disguised.”

 

As they waited, d’Artagnan disappeared from sight. Athos felt a pang of worry. By the time the shaky flame of a torch reappeared between the trees, it seemed as if they had been waiting for hours.

 

“The coach sustained severe damage from the fall,” the Gascon reported. “There was no sign of anyone - living or dead.  The horses were gone, and there was no trace of the Queen’s jewellery. I did find her dresses. One had been torn, and was covered with mud and blood. The corset had been cut.”

 

Athos nodded. It was just as he had expected, but they had been obligated to check the area in case a clue had been left behind. 

 

They returned to the main road, and rode on into the darkness. Athos knew that it would be difficult to pick up a trail at this point.  As long as the bandits were travelling on the main road, it would be almost impossible to find them. A simple cart would attract no attention, so interviewing villagers along the way was almost certain to be of no use.

 

_ As these men were able to successfully kidnap the queen, they are intelligent as well as daring. Their plan was well thought out. More than likely, they have the Queen well hidden - in a safe place which is sure not to attract attention.  _

 

_ That, or they plan to leave France _ … _ and we are hours behind them. _

 

As they approached an inn, Porthos stifled a yawn. “I think we should call it a night.”

 

Athos hesitated. There was no doubt that their mission was of the utmost importance. However, at this point, they were significantly sleep deprived. They could not risk missing an important clue due to their fatigue. 

 

He sighed. “I hate to do it, but the horses need to rest--and so do we if we are going to be at our best.”

 

They rode into the courtyard. As they dismounted, a stable boy appeared. Porthos slipped him a coin, and the boy beamed. He promptly led their horses away, promising that they would be well cared for. 

 

Porthos ordered some food and wine. Athos was surprised to hear d’Artagnan order a mug of hot water. When the it was placed in front of him, the boy took a packet of ground herbs out of his pocket. He dumped a portion in the water, then stirred it with his main gauche. Athos scowled at the familiar smell. 

 

The Gascon caught his gaze, and gave him a narrow look. “Don’t be difficult, Athos. Aramis gave me these herbs before we left, with strict instructions that you take them as directed before each meal.” 

 

“Then I’m not going to eat,” Athos muttered.

 

D’Artagnan poured a measure of wine into the concoction, and exchanged a look with Porthos. The big man smirked, and cracked his knuckles.

 

“Yes, you are,” replied the Gascon calmly. “Because Aramis also gave me--and Porthos--permission to--”  he glanced at Porthos, who appeared to be thoroughly amused. “Porthos, how shall I put this?”

 

“Encourage?” offered Porthos. 

 

D’Artagnan saluted Porthos with the cup. “Thank you! That’s just the word I was looking for. “ He turned back to Athos, and smiled. “We were to  _ encourage _ you to take it if you refused.”

 

Athos merely glared at him.

 

The Gascon inquired, “So, do you want to take the easy route, or the hard one?” 

When no response was forthcoming, he leaned over, and murmured, “It's entirely your choice, but Porthos has been spoiling for some action. It could get ugly.”

 

The swordsman muttered under his breath, then reached for the cup. 

 

Porthos let out a booming laugh. “I thought you’d see it our way in the end.”

 

The swordsman ignored him, took a cautious sip of the tea. Although he detested the taste, he was touched that Aramis, in the midst of battling to save the Captain, had taken the time to provide for his well being.

 

They talked to the innkeeper, but did not learn anything new. Athos was right--the bandits had taken the time to craft a cunning plan. It would not be easy to best them.

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan were eager to catch up on their sleep, and wasted no time heading for their room. Athos found a place in a dark corner of the tavern, and positioned his hat so that it obscured most of his face. Porthos had made him promise not to drink too much. Athos intended to keep that promise, so he merely sipped his wine as he kept a watchful eye on the room. 

 

After he had been sitting there for about an hour, two men entered. Their clothes were soiled with mud. They appeared to be in a rush, and paid well to have some food and wine quickly packed for the road. The men tried to appear relaxed as they waited, but Athos noticed there was a subtle tension in the way they glanced around the tavern. It was definitely suspicious. 

 

Finally, the innkeeper handed them a large bundle. The men nodded curtly, and left. By the time Athos was headed up the staircase to fetch Porthos and Aramis, the men were already saddling their horses. The swordsman rushed up the steps, taking them two at a time. 

 

Bursting into the room, he called out, “D’Artagnan! Porthos! We have to go. NOW!”

 

The two men jumped out of bed, and donned their breeches and doublets without asking any questions. To their credit, both were ready to ride within a few minutes. They slipped out to the stable, mounting their horses just in time to catch a glimpse of the suspects riding out of the courtyard. The musketeers followed them into the dark night, following at a distance so that they would not be seen. It was not too difficult to stay hidden, as the men travelled only by the light of the torches. 

 

As they rode, Athos lost track of time. The musketeers were careful not to do anything that would cause the bandits to realize they were being followed. He could almost feel the tension that radiated from his two friends. Suddenly, their quarry veered off the main road. As the path led into the dense forest, it was much harder to remain concealed. Just the sound of one of the musketeers’ horses stepping on a dry branch could serve to alert their prey of their presence.

 

Athos signaled for them to halt. 

 

D’Artagnan slipped from his horse. “I’ll scout ahead,” he hissed.

 

Athos knew that the Gascon was the stealthiest of all of them in the forest. He nodded his assent, ignoring the spike of fear for his little brother. He reached for Nuit’s reins, watching as the boy disappeared into the darkness.

 

Silence reigned, disturbed only by their breathing. The musketeers guided their mounts off the road, allowing the darkness to envelope them. 

 

As they waited, Athos struggled not to think of all the mishaps which could have befallen their youngest. When dawn arrived, they withdrew a bit further into the forest in order to remain concealed.

 

Suddenly, Nuit flicked her ears, and took a step in the direction of the road. Athos handed Porthos the reins, and motioned for him to stay behind with the horses. He moved forward quietly. A few minutes later, he nearly ran headlong into a slightly confused d’Artagnan.

 

“What took you so long?” the swordsman growled. 

 

“Well, I couldn’t exactly rush into their camp!” replied the boy, an exasperated expression on his face. “But I did confirm that they are our men.”

 

“Did you see the Queen?”

 

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No. But from the snatches of conversation that I overheard, she is there now--or soon will be.” 

 

He bent over to catch his breath for a moment, then said in a rush, “We have a major problem, Athos. They have nearly fifty men. Their camp is located at the site of an old church or castle. The building is partially in ruins, but much of it is still intact.  I climbed up into a tree to get a better look at it. The bandits definitely knew what they were doing when they chose this place. The building was constructed out of thick stone, and is easily defended. It also appears to offer an excellent view of the surrounding area. It will be very difficult for us to approach without being detected.”

 

Athos gave him a thoughtful look. “Well, I think we can all agree that it makes no sense to attack until we are sure the Queen is there.” He was silent for a moment, then asked, “Can you sketch out a plan of their camp?”

 

D’Artagnan crouched on the ground, and brushed away some dry leaves. Taking up a stick, he quickly made a rough sketch of the enemy camp, showing them how the tents were arranged around the wall of the former fortress. Keeping his voice low, he gave them a quick description of the patrol route that the sentries followed.

 

Athos did not heard of a castle in the area. He guessed it was an old church, built for worship, but also in order to afford the local people some measure of protection in case of an attack. Perhaps there had been a small monastery there for monks who sought solitude in the wilderness -- or perhaps a noble had decided to built an adjoining guard tower. The lands had belonged to the Crown for some time, but surely had a long history that predated their acquisition by the King.

 

Athos felt his heart sink as he looked over the sketch. He could not see any viable option for leading a successful attack with just three men. Even Aramis’ expert marksmanship would not have changed the odds. Not when the bandits had such a precious hostage. 

 

“D’Artagnan, ride to the estate,” commanded Athos. “Ride as hard as you can. The reinforcements should have arrived by now. Bring them here. If they are not there, then head for the garrison.”

 

He knew that if the musketeers had failed to reach the estate, it could mean only one thing. Constance had been intercepted--and probably killed. His protege seemed to know this as well.  Fear flashed in the Gascon’s eyes for an instant, but he dispelled it with a fierce look.

 

“She made it. I know she did.”

 

Athos sensed that d’Artagnan spoke with a certainty that he did not feel. The Gascon nodded a farewell to his brothers. The unspoken promise in his eyes caused Athos’ gaze to soften.

 

“Be safe,” he murmured.

 

D’Artagnan summoned his trademark cocky grin, and led his horse out from their hiding place. Athos wished he had enough faith to believe that God would protect the boy. 

 

Dismissing the thought, he turned to Porthos. “Our first order of business is to find a secure vantage point that overlooks the camp. We need to keep a close eye on their operations.”

 

They secured the horses. Athos decided that he would take the first watch. Porthos would rest near their horses. 

 

The swordsman stole through the trees, and finally found a good place to hide. D’Artagnan had been right. The camp was well secured. As he watched the guards rotate, the method that they used reminded him of a Spanish strategy he had read about once. This could be significant---or might just mean that their leader had read the same military history books that he had. 

 

Athos took up a comfortable position, and settled in for a long watch. He tracked the movements of the sentries, and observed the way their enemies behaved in the camp. 

 

_ They are much too disciplined to be run of the mill bandits.  _

 

Most of the men were masked. Others wore red cloaks. The man he recognized as the leader of the True Musketeers headed for the central building, which was well guarded. The rounded arches of the ruined church betrayed its early medieval origin. Several crumbling statues guarded the entrance. Part of the tower had been destroyed. There was no cross displayed on it - nor on the roof. The building was low, and its walls thick. However, it was large enough to comfortably fit twenty people inside.

 

The bandits’ commander entered the building. Athos scanned the camp one more time, then stretched, deciding that it was time to change positions with Porthos. 

 

It was then that he heard it.

The terrible scream of a woman, suddenly muffled, then silenced completely. 

 

Athos felt his blood run cold. The Queen was there. She was being tortured, and he could do nothing. Well, that was not quite true. He could choose to charge the enemy position, and lay down his life for his queen. Death would hurt less than knowing that the woman he had sworn to protect was being tormented just yards from his position. 

 

_ So close...and yet fifty men too far.  _

 

He felt anger washing over him, its tide taking him to places that he was not sure he knew how to return from.  A mocking voice echoed in his brain, and he shook his head vigorously. 

 

_ You cannot save anyone, can you? You only bring death and misery to those you love --the ones who look to you for protection. Your love is tainted. It kills. It killed Thomas. It destroyed Anne, because you were too weak to kill her. It damned Aramis. You was not there for him in his hour of need...but the Queen was... _

 

_ Aramis… if he were here, he would find a way to save her…or he would die trying, not hiding in the trees listening to her cries of agony. _

 

Athos could feel the harsh gaze of his betrayed brother. It had always been an unspoken rule that if any of them ever fell in love, the others would give their lives to protect his sweetheart.

 

But he had broke their unspoken vow. 

 

He was a failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you fot betaing!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

“Ah, you’re finally awake, sir,” Aramis murmured, leaning towards Treville.

 

The Captain seized his arm, and tried to lift himself up.

 

“Do you understand what Milady’s information means?!”  he rasped.

 

“That the country is in serious danger,” the medic replied calmly. “But that’s not a good enough reason to ruin my needle work. Please, lie down, sir.”

 

“Aramis, you must go!”

 

“With all due respect, Captain, where would you have me go?”

 

“To Le Havre.”

 

“And leave you here alone to be finished off by our enemy?” Aramis shook his head, his voice firm. “I’m sorry, Captain. That will not happen.”

 

“And if I order you?” Treville challenged.

 

Aramis took in a deep breath. “Then I’ll face a court martial, secure in the knowledge that I did the right thing.” 

 

_ I thought I would do anything to save her, but I cannot leave you here alone... to face death from infection or bandits. I will not allow that to happen! _

 

Treville bit his lip. Aramis was not sure whether his commander was angry or in pain. 

 

“There was a strange… incident a few weeks ago,” the Captain muttered.

 

Aramis leaned forward, relieved that Treville had changed the topic.

 

“There was an attack on the Red Guards… Rochefort did not share the details, but it was said that his regiment suffered great losses. He needed a large number of recruits to replace the fallen men. It appears that he took on a large number of mercenaries…as well as some teenage boys. When … when the True Musketeers attacked us, the young ones remained loyal…” 

 

Treville’s voice trailed off as he struggled to catch his breath.

 

“The whole thing must have been carefully planned,” Aramis said thoughtfully. “Is it possible the King has been poisoned--or drugged--in order to make him more malleable?”

 

“I don’t know. He is distant lately… always angry with me.”  His leader’s voice was tinged with pain. His emotions had to be strong, as it was rare for the Captain to display them openly. 

 

Exhausted by the events, Treville  began to nod off.

 

Aramis tried to focus on tending to the injured man. However, there really was not much more to be done at this point. The Captain obviously needed someone nearby to tend to him if needed, but he mostly just needed rest. Aramis checked on the weapons and on his supply of herbs. He replenished the supply of food in the room, then tried to concentrate on the book he had been reading earlier. It was a translation of a Greek treatise on the medicinal uses of herbs. Although it had seemed fascinating a few hours ago, Aramis now found it difficult to focus on the text. 

 

Finally, he began to feel drowsy. He once again placed his fingers on the Captain’s wrist, and allowed himself to fall into a light sleep. 

 

The whinnying of a horse woke him abruptly.

 

_ Not again… _

 

Just at the moment he took up his pistol, he heard a muffled voice cry out, “Aramis!! Don’t shoot!”

 

A female voice. It was Constance.

 

Aramis sighed in relief, and opened the window a crack. “You’re catching on quickly, Constance,” he called down. “It took d’Artagnan a few times to realize that it is always wise to announce yourself in the presence of a sharpshooter on edge--at least one who is on the same side.”

 

She flashed him a warm smile in response, and gave him a little wave.

 

_ I thought they would never get here! Now I can finally rush off to join the rescue mission. _

 

He felt a deep sense of pride when he saw the musketeers starting to dismount. He was one of them. 

 

_ Am I really?  _

 

A traitorous thought appeared in his mind. Before it could take root, he heard a  gasp of pain. He glanced back to see the Captain reaching for a pistol. The medic rushed to his patient’s side, and eased him back onto the pillows.

 

“It’s fine, Captain,” he said gently. “They are our men.”

 

Constance entered a moment later, having given the door a cursory knock. She gave Aramis a quick hug, then saw that the Captain was conscious. 

 

“I see that the Captain is feeling better,” she murmured, her eyes warming.

 

“Yes, thank God. But there is no time to waste! We need to ride out immediately.”

 

Constance looked uneasy. “Aramis, even if we are ready to go on, our horses are not. They must have a few hours of rest.”

 

“Constance, give me a report,” Treville ordered. His voice, although weak, still carried an unmistakable air of authority.. 

 

“Sir, I reached the Garrison without any problem, and spoke with Etienne.  I told him that the Queen had been taken, and that you were here - wounded. He immediately summoned fifteen musketeers, as well as a physician named Vimaire. We came as quickly as possible.”

 

“Aramis, tell Constance what we know. This information is for your ears only. The others should only be told what they need to know to help in the search.” Treville sank back on the pillow, his voice trailing off. 

 

Aramis told her of his conversation with Milady. Constance listened closely.

“She may be right about his obsession,” she muttered.

 

Treville spoke up again. “Aramis, until you meet up with Athos, you are in charge. Constance, bring Etienne to me.”

 

A startled Aramis stared at his commander. He usually had no qualms about leading his brothers in arms. However, while Anne was still in danger, he doubted his ability to focus on his men.

 

Before he could say anything, Constance had returned with Etienne. The musketeer approached his Captain, and stood at attention as he waited to receive his orders.

 

“Etienne, take five men and follow Athos and the others. Then go to Le Havre.” 

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Treville turned to Aramis. “I want you to take the other men and ride straight for Le Havre. It is possible that they plan to spirit the Queen away by ship. We cannot afford to arrest anyone who knows whom they’ve taken. When you have found her, meet us back here. Once you join up with Athos, he will resume command.” 

 

Treville closed his eyes, and appeared to be fighting a wave of pain and fatigue. Aramis offered him a cup of draught, and the Captain accepted it gratefully. 

 

“Constance,” the injured man whispered. “I must ask you to go with Aramis.” There was guilt and sadness in his voice.

 

“There’s no need, Captain,” she replied briskly. “You’d have to tie me down to keep me here.”

 

Her eyes met Aramis’. She obviously understood what might have happened to Anne. Her place was beside her friend--her Queen.

 

It was decided that three men, as well as the physician, would stay behind with their commander. .

 

They rode out before dawn. Aramis prayed that they would soon engage their enemy. He desperately wanted to save Anne as soon as possible. For the time being, they all rode together towards Chartres. 

 

Aramis could not banish from his mind the image of Rochefort’s hands roaming over Anne’s delicate skin...touching her in a way that should never be allowed. He envisioned an unconscious Anne, her small body limp in her captor’s repulsive embrace… 

 

_ Stop! You have to focus! _

 

They arrived at the site of the fight. Only a carving on a tree gave them any indication that something had happened there. Aramis guessed that Athos had paid to send the bodies back to Paris---no doubt in order to allow for a proper burial for their comrades, as well as a chance at identifying their dead enemies. Aramis was relieved that no corpses had been left for wild animals to feast upon. 

 

Below a carving of crossed swords was a barely visible mark indicating in which direction the musketeers had headed. Aramis smiled, and informed the others. Before they departed, he called Constance over, and explained to her the meaning behind the signs. Her eyes shone with gratitude as she listened to him. Once again, he had made sure to demonstrate that she was truly one of them.

 

They came upon an inn after riding for an hour or so. When Aramis signaled for them to halt, Tannard was astonished. “You want to stop already?”

 

“Not really, but I’m hoping that Athos has left a message for me. Wait here while I go check.”

 

He went to the door and tried the handle, only to find it locked. He banged on the door. 

 

“Who’s there?!” growled a sleepy voice.

 

“Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers,” he replied, taking a step to the side in case his reception came in the form of a bullet. 

 

The door opened. A thin man, his eyes dull with fatigue, regarded him suspiciously. 

 

“Aramis, you say?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Come in.” As the musketeer entered, the man shut the door behind him. “I have two messages for you. A letter and…” he hesitated, and looked uneasy. “Some bad news. The injured boy whom the other musketeers brought here...well, he has died.”

 

Aramis felt lightheaded.

“Is it….D’Artagnan?” he murmured.

 

“I’m sorry,” the innkeeper said softly.

 

“May I see him?”

 

“Yes. We left him in the room at the end of the hall.”

 

Aramis merely nodded. He suddenly felt terribly cold--and the knowledge that Constance was waiting outside only intensified his shock and grief.

 

_ What happened? Why did our little brother have to die alone?! _

 

He stood in front of the door to the room.  For a long time, he could not bring himself to enter the chamber--to make the awful news a reality. Finally, he closed his eyes and slowly opened the door. He took a step inside, his heart pounding as if it was trying to escape his chest. 

 

Escape the pain. 

 

He slowly opened his eyes, and stared at the body lying on the bed. He recognized the dead musketeer at once. Immense relief was followed by a feeling of shame. He mourned the loss of a good man, but it was not d’Artagnan. It was Henri de Trouille. 

 

Aramis exhaled slowly. He had liked the man. It hurt to see him dead, but it did not shatter his soul--as d’Artagnan’s death surely would have.

 

Aramis turned around when the innkeeper entered.

 

“You will send his body to Paris,” he ordered. He gave the man some money, and took the sealed letter that had been left for him.

 

Then he said a short prayer for the deceased, and left the room. He read the message from Athos, and sighed in frustration. It did not contain much information. He had really hoped for more. 

 

He returned to his companions, and they set out. 

 

The day slowly gave way to evening. Grey clouds covered the sky. A rider appeared, and rapidly approached them. Aramis signaled for them to halt. 

 

The rider appeared to have caught sight of them, and he urged his mount to pick up the pace. The horse’s feet flew over the ground as the distance between them rapidly closed. Aramis caught a glimpse of blue on the dirty cloak. Despite the dimming light, he recognized a familiar face, and rushed forward. 

 

“D’Artagnan!”

 

The two men simultaneously reined in their mares. The horses tossed their heads, dancing impatiently under their riders.

 

“Aramis, thank God you’ve come!” d’Artagnan gasped. We have found the place where she is being kept. There are about fifty men guarding her.” He stopped to catch his breath, then asked, “How is the Captain?”

 

“Better. He should recover.”

 

The Gascon grinned. “Well, there is no other option, is there?” But Aramis’ mind had already leaped ahead to the logistics of a rescue.

 

_ Fifty men. More than three for each of us. We can handle it.  _

 

“Take us there,” he said, trying to keep his nerves in check.

 

But as they rode on, his mind was flooded with images of a tortured, abused Anne. 

 

_ Will we be able to save her? What if it is already too late?! _

 

“Aramis.”  D’Artagnan maneuvered his horse closer to his friend. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” he muttered.

 

The Gascon gave him a searching look. “Are you sure? You’re as white as a ghost!”

 

The marksman tried to control his emotions, but he was all too aware of the fear and despair that were pulsing through his body. The boy must have understood. He placed his hand on Aramis’ shoulder for a moment, then gave him a nod.

 

The marksman responded with a strained smile, grateful for the comfort of his friend’s touch.

 

They stopped in the middle of night in order to rest the horses. As they stretched their cramped limbs, D’Artagnan explained what he had learned about their enemies’ camp. 

 

“Athos will have come up with a plan by the time we return.”  D’Artagnan spoke with a convinction that Aramis envied. 

 

It took them another few hours to reach the small path leading into the forest. Finally, Aramis and d’Artagnan met up with their comrades. 

 

Athos, hearing someone approach, greeted them with the muzzle of his pistol.  Recognizing his fellow musketeers, he slowly lowered the weapon. Aramis was shocked by how haggard the lieutenant looked. His face was pale, and his eyes were full of quiet despair.

 

“Anne?” Aramis asked.

 

“You mean Her Majesty,” Athos replied, giving him a warning look. ‘Yes, she’s being held in a nearby camp.”

 

Aramis felt a rush of panic. “Is she alive?”

 

“I believe so.” He lowered his voice. “Aramis, I won’t allow you to go in after her. She may be in shock.”

 

_ She may be severely injured--or wounded. Were you to find her, your words and actions--as well as hers---might  compromise both of you.  _

 

_ That was what Athos had really meant. _

 

“You can’t keep me out of this mission!” Aramis protested.

 

“No, I can’t,”  the swordsman agreed calmly. “I need your marksmanship. Choose one man to load your pistols. It can’t be Porthos, because I will need him to help lead the rescue.”

 

The snap of a dry stick caught Aramis’ attention, and he drew his dagger. He only relaxed when he saw Porthos approaching. The big man enveloped him in a hug. There was joy and relief in his embrace.  Aramis buried his face in the crook of Porthos’ neck, ignoring the hobnails of his leather collar. 

 

When he finally released his brother, Porthos asked, “How’s the Captain?”

 

“Give him a little time, and he’ll be as good as new.”  A thought crossed his mind, and for an instant, he thought of asking Athos about the blinded musketeer. However, he knew there was no time.

 

Athos decided that he and Porthos would try to slip unnoticed into the camp. Their goal was to be as close to Anne as possible before the rest of the group attacked with a mighty charge of their horses. Aramis would cover them, with Morineau by his side to load his weapons.

 

Once the orders had been given, Athos and Porthos left them. Aramis took up his position. The usual adrenaline rush he felt at the onset of a battle was tempered by his fear for Anne. 

 

The marksman held his breath as he watched as his brothers creep forward.  

 

They managed to penetrate a good distance into the camp before they were spotted. Then all hell broke loose. 

 

Aim.

Fire.

Take up another pistol.

Aim.

Fire.

 

Later, he would be amazed at how he had been able to focus. All extraneous thoughts disappeared from his brain. All his senses and thoughts were occupied with his task.

 

He was one with his weapon. He was the hand of the Angel of Death...or perhaps his bow and arrows. 

 

Athos managed to get to Anne. She seemed barely conscious as the musketeer half dragged her from the ruins. In an instant, d’Artagnan came forward on Nuit, leading Nuage by the reins. Athos swung into the saddle, and Porthos lifted up the Queen to sit in front of him. She slumped against the swordsman, looking for all the world like a rag doll.

 

Aramis shot a bandit who took aim at his brother and the Queen. The musketeers began their retreat, and the marksman did his best to make it safe as possible. 

 

Morineau gave him another primed pistol. The two men mounted their horses, ready to follow their comrades. Morineau gestured to his companion to ride first, so that he could have a clean shot. 

 

A few minutes later, he got the chance. His eyes were scanning the forest for potential threats when his peripheral vision caught something move. He glanced in that direction, just in time to see Porthos fall.

 

He rushed forward, his brother's name on his lips. He shot the first man who tried to slash his beloved friend with a sword. Porthos lay motionless on the ground. His awful stillness terrified the marksman.

 

The moment he became entangled in the fight, he knew he would not prevail. For an instant, he felt Athos’ gaze on him, but there was no way the swordsman could intervene to help him. Athos knew his duty, and his first priority was to get Anne to safety. 

 

With the quickest of glances, Aramis acknowledged his brother’s silent farewell. He could only hope that Athos would not feel guilty. After all, they were soldiers. They had sworn to lay down their lives for the Crown if necessary. However, he knew it was futile to believe that the swordsman would ever be free from the shadow of guilt.

 

With a feral growl, he once more met the bandits’ swords with his rapier. 

 

_ If I am to die, so be it...but I’ll make them pay for what they did to Porthos. _

 

Aramis fought like a man possessed. His opponents were no match for his daring slashes and thrusts. The Spaniard seemed to be too quick for their blades to ever taste his flesh. However, once he was surrounded, he knew he couldn't last much longer..

 

_ But I’ll make damn sure to take as many men with me as I can.  _

 

He never saw the blow which propelled him into darkness.

 

When he started to regain consciousness, his head was pounding. He felt blood trickling down his cheek, and guessed that he had been felled by a blow to the head. Even before he opened his eyes, he felt the intense urge to curl up into a ball and retch. But when he attempted to move his limbs, his heart sank. His wrists and ankles were bound.

 

“So you finally decided to join us.”

A familiar, mocking voice pierced the fog of nausea..

 

An instant later, a booted foot connected with Aramis’ back. The pain was agonizing, and he bit back a moan. Blinking, he managed to open his eyes. His vision blurred, but he was able to make out a masked man.

 

_ The True Musketeers Captain. _

 

“You’ll pay for taking my Queen from me.” The man’s voice was cold, but matter-of-fact.

 

“And you’ll hang for laying your hands on her!” Aramis snapped, his heart sinking.

 

“I daresay she liked my hands on her… in fact, she wanted much more than that, and I was happy to oblige her.” He laughed. “She was quite...needy. Almost insatiable. Such a jewel is wasted on Louis.”

 

“You liar!” Aramis’ voice was low and deadly.

_ He is telling the truth. He took her.  _

 

The man shook his head, and smirked _. “ _ You can say what you like, but after a few months, her swelling belly will prove that my words are true. Obviously, Louis will think he has sired the child…..just as he did with the Dauphin. But the boy is your bastard, isn’t he?”

 

_ There is no way he can possibly know that! _

_ But he may suspect it, and hopes to goad me into confessing. _

_ He has no proof. He cannot have any proof!   _

_ If he had, he would have used it against Anne.  _

 

“I don’t know what are you talking about!”  The marksman channelled his anger into his words, hoping that to mask the other motions that were roiling inside him. 

 

“So why did the bitch cry out  _ your _ name...in the the midst of the ecstasy that  _ I _ was giving her?”

 

_ You’re a dead man. I swear it. _

 

“Because you drugged her!” Aramis retorted. “She was crying out for help!” At that moment, he knew with certainty that if he had not been restrained, he would have torn the man’s heart out with his bare hands.

 

_ He touched her. He raped her. Even worse, he forced her to bend to his will. He has damaged her in the worst possible way... _

 

“You’ll pay for this... “ Aramis whispered, shaken to his very core. 

 

The man shrugged. “Perhaps.”  

 

The voice of the bandit had subtly changed. Something in his tone reminded the marksman of a voice he had heard at court.

 

_ Rochefort. _

 

“You’ll die here, Aramis..and I will make your dark skinned animal watch while you burn. Then, after you have been reduced to a neat pile of ashes, my men will have some fun with him.”

 

_ Porthos is alive?!  _

_ No, no, no! _

_ Leave him alone!  _

 

Rochefort’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Oh, you’re jealous!”

 

Aramis glared at him, which only made Rochefort chuckle. 

 

“So, the Dauphin is the son of a sodomite! But no need to worry--he won’t have to live with the shame, because he is going to die in the very near future. As for Anne, once she gives birth to my son, I will decide how to best use--or dispose--of her. Sweet last thoughts, musketeer!”

 

Rochefort delivered a vicious kick to his ribs.  Aramis attempted in vain to curl into a defensive ball. No matter how he twisted his body, he could not avoid the blows that were raining upon him. When something hard connected with his head wound, he slipped into darkness. 

  
  


Even before his body registered the pain, the sickening smell made him nauseous. His stomach heaved, but he was only able to bring up some blood-streaked bile. He fought the urge to vomit again.

 

Pain.

He concentrated on it, focusing on the sensation in order to block out the smell. 

 

His limbs were impossibiy cramped. Spasms tore through his legs. He sensed that he was upright, his arms and legs lashed tightly to something behind him.  He slowly opened his swollen eyelids, and realized with horror that he was standing on the ruined altar.

 

_ Probably bound to a cross…  _

 

Small bundles of sticks were scattered around him.

 

_ They're going to burn me at the stake. _

_ So this is how it ends. If only I could have saved Anne… _

 

Aramis’ gaze was drawn to a broken window. He gasped when he saw Porthos bound to a tree. His face was covered with dried blood, but he was conscious. 

 

_ He’s alive… _

_ And in Rochefort’s  hands… _

 

Aramis wanted to shout to catch his friend’s attention but…to what purpose?

 

A man carrying a torch approached the altar. The musketeer recognized him as a former Red Guard.  He recalled thrashing him more than once for insulting Porthos. 

 

The man caught his eye as he touched the torch to the first bundle of kindling. Grinning evilly, he snarled, “Sweet agony, musketeer.”

 

Aramis feel a sting of fear as the first stIcks caught fire. 

 

_ The pain will be unbearable…. _

 

He lifted his head, and felt Porthos’ eyes on him. He met his brother’s gaze, and saw the utter despair in his brother’s dark eyes. The big man tried frantically to free himself. The rope was doubtless rubbing his skin raw. Porthos’ roar of pain and frustration was muffled by his gag. 

 

_ He’s suffering…. God, please spare him… give him solace… _

 

Aramis was finding it hard to breathe. The small space was already filled with smoke from the wet wood.

 

_ Thank God for small mercies - to suffocate will be a far easier death than to burn.  _

_ But it will not be painless.  _

 

The heat was now blistering, and the air dense with smoke. Each breath was a painful struggle.. 

 

Aramis could not restrain a cough, and pain shot through his bruised body. He searched for Porthos’ eyes, wanting one last chance to anchor himself to the brother he loved. To say his final, silent farewell.

 

They kept their eyes locked on each other until the moment when the thick cloud of smoke finally separated them.

 

_ Until we meet again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thanks to Riversidewren my amazing Beta!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

He heard Aramis’ desperate call for Porthos. He did not have to look to know what it meant. But he did. His eyes met Aramis’ gaze, and he knew… 

 

Everything in him screamed for him to go back.

To rescue his brothers.

 

Or to save Aramis, and retrieve Porthos’ body. The big man lay still on the ground. Unconscious or dead.

 

_ Aramis has chosen his loyalty to his brother over his loyalty to his Queen. He is free to make that choice, but I have to save the Queen. Aramis has entrusted me with the life of the woman he loves.  _

_ No, he hasn’t. It was my decision…  _

 

He urged his horse into a gallop, knowing that he was leaving his two brothers to face their deaths. 

 

He held the unconscious Queen in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest. For just a moment, he caught a glimpse of her dirty face, and her eyes opened slightly. Her gaze slipped over him without a hint of recognition, and then her eyelids closed once again.

 

Behind them, the last sounds of the fight had died away. Athos hoped against hope that his brothers would catch up to them, but it was not to be.  

 

They rode hard, pushing their horses to the limit. However, as they could not afford to risk their mounts’ collapse, after a time they had to slow down. They finally decided to stop to give them a rest. No one seemed to be following them. 

 

D’Artagnan approached the swordsman. 

“Aramis and Porthos have been left behind.”

 

“Our duty is to get the Queen to safety,” Athos replied curtly. “They were soldiers. They knew the risk.”

 

“They ARE soldiers--not were!” snapped d’Artagnan. “We have a duty to them as well!” 

 

“Porthos fell. It was Aramis’ choice to stay with him.” 

His words sounded so cold-so terrible!

 

“Athos! Listen to me!” d’Artagnan pleaded, despair and agitation clear on his face.  “You know we can trust Constance and the other musketeers to escort the Queen to the estate. Our duty now is to our brothers! Do you really intend to abandon them to their fate? And then torment yourself for the rest of your life because of it?!”

 

“D’Artagnan, they are probably already dead,” he said flatly.

 

“You don’t know that for a fact!” he shouted, then headed to his horse. As he readied his saddle, he turned back, fury edging his words. “Go ahead, do whatever you want--but I’m going back!”

 

“Athos…” Etienne’s voice was quiet, and tinged with sadness. “I think we can safely send three men to check on Aramis and Porthos. They could also function as a sort of rear guard. If a party has been sent out in pursuit of us, they will intercept it. It would provide us with an additional margin of safety.”

 

The swordsman closed his eyes for a moment--only to see Aramis’ sad eyes, full of the knowledge that he had chosen to die with his brother. 

 

“Fine. D’Artagnan, Morineau, you’re coming with me,” Athos called out. He cautiously shifted the Queen in his arms, and laid her down on a cloak that had been spread on the ground. The movement seemed to revive her a bit. As he leaned over her, she lifted her head. Her pupils were enormous, causing her blue eyes to appear almost black. In an instant, she had looped an arm around Athos’ neck, pulling him down to her. As her fingers caressed his cheek, she pressed her body against his. Taken aback, Athos hastily detached himself from her.

 

“She has been drugged!”  Etienne looked shocked.

 

“So it appears,” Athos replied, taking in a deep breath.

 

At this point, Etienne, who was well known to be unswervingly faithful to his wife, seemed the best choice to take care of their Queen. 

 

_ It is fortunate that Aramis is not here. Had she acted this way with him, it would have been disastrous. _

 

“Etienne, Her Majesty will ride with you,” Athos ordered. As Constance began to check on Anne, he averted his eyes.

 

“Please give us some space! The Queen needs privacy!” the redhead exclaimed. “And I need someone to fetch me some water and wine.”

 

Athos motioned to d’Artagnan and Morineau.  They mounted up, and slowly rode back towards the scene of the skirmish.  His conscience, left to its own devices, began to taunt him.

 

_ You left them. _

_ You wouldn’t even be going back if it were not for d’Artagnan… _

 

When they decided that the horses were up to it, the musketeers urged the animals into a canter. 

 

They rode through the night in silence. Without any hope. 

 

_ That is, I have no hope. D’Artagnan seems to believe that we are on a mission to rescue our brothers rather than on a search for their dead bodies. _

 

_ How will I carry on without them?  _

 

Pain was consuming his heart. He tried to wall himself off from it, but he knew that any emotional shield he constructed would be useless the moment he saw their corpses.

 

When they finally approached the camp, night had begun to transform into the grey light of day. The morning fog was mixed with heavy smoke from the wet branches, and a pungent scent hung in the air. He recalled the layout of the bandits’ camp, but could not explain the odd smell. Was the meat of some large animal being smoked? 

 

The thought hit him suddenly.

 

_ Aramis! Porthos!  _

 

_ Are their bodies burning?!  _

 

The musketeers reached one of their previous vantage points. D’Artagnan dismounted, and quickly climbed a tree. He scanned the camp, then hastened to descend. He jumped to the ground the second he could safely do so.

 

“Porthos is alive, but the ruins are on fire. I think Aramis may be in there!” he gasped.

 

“How many men have been left behind to guard the camp?” Athos asked, wheeling his horse in the direction of the smoke.

 

“Less than ten.”

 

“Morineau, d’Artagnan--you free Porthos, I’ll try to find Aramis. Go!”

 

They rode at breakneck speed into the camp, weapons at the ready. One glance at a frantic Porthos told Athos everything he needed to know. His friend was straining at the ropes that still bound him to the tree. Although the big man was gagged, the ferocious noise he made reminded Athos of the roar of a coming storm. His dark eyes were glued to the burning building. 

 

While D’Artagnan rushed to free Porthos, Athos galloped to the ruins. He slid off his horse without pulling to a stop, and rushed into the thick smoke. Orange tongues of flame appeared in front of him, and his eyes began to tear from the clouds of rolling smoke.

 

“Aramis!!!” he shouted.

 

He slipped, and landed hard on his knees. When he reached out, he felt a pair of boots, and jumped up. As his eyes sought a familiar face, his body was wracked with fits of coughing. 

 

“Aramis?!” he croaked, his voice having been reduced to a hoarse rasp.

 

His hands finally found the rope, and he cut it with his dagger. The limp weight of his friend fell into his arms. Athos glanced around him. Which way led out of the hell in which they were trapped?

 

The heat and smoke were suffocating. His lungs were burning now, growing more desperate for air with each passing moment. This only served to increase his fear for Aramis. Who knew how long his brother had spent breathing in the smoke?

 

A tongue of flame licked at Athos’ cloak, but the cloth was too wet and thick for it to hold. Finally, he found his way outside. He was blinded by the smoke, tears streaming down his cheeks. Someone blocked his path, but was cut down by a shadowy figure who turned out to be Morineau. 

 

“Get on your horse!” the other musketeer shouted. “We’ll join you!”

 

Nuage, her nostrils flaring at the smoke, danced close to him. The horse was still waiting for him, her loyalty to her master having triumphed over her fear of fire. Athos threw Aramis’ limp form over Nuage’s back. There was no time to arrange the medic into a more comfortable position. Athos swung into the saddle, and they galloped away. Once again, he was leaving his brothers behind.

 

He heard Porthos’ furious roar as his comrade charged the bandits. He knew that d’Artagnan would watch the big man’s back. He, on the other hand, had a clear duty to Aramis… a duty he hoped would not involve his burial. 

 

The swordsman took the shortest route to the little stream that he had spotted when they had been riding with the Queen.  The ride ended up being longer than he had thought.  

 

He finally found it, and started to search along the bank for a place to stop. He forced himself to focus on his task instead of on the limp form draped over his mount. 

 

_ Please, brother, don’t be dead… _

 

Athos finally sighted a small clearing close to the bank, and halted there. He spread a blanket on the ground, then tried to slowly lower Aramis onto it. He somehow lost his grip on his brother, and Aramis hit the ground with a thud. Athos cursed himself for his clumsiness, desperately hoping the fall had not worsened Aramis’ condition. 

 

His brother showed no reaction to the manhandling. Athos’ hopes faded a bit more when he got his first clear look at the medic’s face.

 

“Aramis!” he choked. His friend’s handsome features were almost unrecognizable. His face was covered in soot and dried blood. Athos tore off his gloves with his teeth. He hesitantly touched Aramis’ neck, afraid of what he might find--or not find. The marksman’s skin was hot to the touch.

 

_ He must have been alive when I dragged him out of the building.  _

 

Athos’ fingers found finally a pulse, and he sighed in relief. He poured some water on his scarf, then started to wash his friend’s face, taking an inventory of his injuries as he went. 

 

There was a gash on Aramis’ temple that appeared to have come from a blow to the head. A still bleeding wound had sliced open the scar that the marksman had acquired at Grottes de Renard.  An ugly bruise covered the left side of his face, and there was a deep cut on his swollen lower lip. 

 

Aramis’ eyelids fluttered, and he began to cough. He curled into a ball, his whole body shivering. As he gasped for air, his cough only grew worse.  His fingers scrabbled at the ground. 

 

Athos tried in vain to stretch out the injured man. He then reached for his hand, hoping to ground his friend in the comfort of a familiar touch. Aramis’ nails dug into his flesh. The swordsman winced when he caught a glimpse of marksman’s face. His dark eyes were full of pain and fear. There was no hint of recognition -- only a silent plea for help. 

 

Athos felt completely helpless. He could only watch as his friend spat up soot during the moments of respite from the coughing fits which mercilessly wracked his body. Aramis was not truly conscious, but he instinctively sought the comfort of a caring presence.

 

_ If I hadn’t left him, he would not be in such pain. And now I have failed him again. I have no idea how to help him.  _

 

_ It is a fitting punishment for me to have to witness his agony, but he doesn’t deserve to suffer for my mistakes… _

 

Aramis was panting now, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eyes were closed, and tremors ran through his frame.  His body was tense, and he maintained a death grip on the swordsman’s hand. Athos was sure he was getting no rest at all. The former comte tentatively began to stroke Aramis’ hair, hoping to provide some measure of comfort to his friend. His heart sank when his fingers came across a section of hair that was matted with blood. He could feel another cut on the marksman’s head. 

 

_ What if the damage caused by his head wounds prevents him from recognizing me? _

 

Athos gently squeezed Aramis’ hand. There was no response, and Athos began to despair.

 

“Aramis… please”

 

_ I know I deserve to be punished… _

_ I’ve failed you. _

_ I’ve failed Porthos… _

_ But please don’t die on me! _

 

_ Where are the rest of them?  They should be here by now! _

 

The marksman succumbed to another attack of coughing. This time, the secretions were thicker than previously, and he vomited.

Soot and fresh blood.

 

_ No! No! No! _

_ This is not happening. He’s not dying! Please!  _

 

If asked, Athos would not be able to say with whom 

he was pleading.

Aramis? 

Fate?

The God he had lost faith in?

 

Athos finally coaxed Aramis into lying flat on his back. He tried to free his hand from his friend’s grip, but could not. Opening the marksman’s doublet with only one hand was a real challenge--especially as Aramis was still struggling to breathe through the endless bouts of coughing. However, Athos needed to see what damage had been done to his friend’s chest. 

 

He finally succeeded in getting the doublet open, and lifted the marksman’s shirt. The heat radiating from his body was sickening. The swordsman winced when he saw the bruises covering his brother’s ribs. Each cough had to hurt like hell. 

 

Athos braced himself for what he might find, then began to gently run his hand over his brother’s chest. He was sure that he would find a broken rib that had pierced Aramis’ lung. 

 

_ Because you tossed him on the horse like a rag doll. You killed him. _

 

He had only examined about three ribs--which were surprisingly intact in spite of the dark bruises that covered them--when another cough tore through his brother’s body. Aramis gripped Athos’ arm, lifting himself to a more upright position.

 

His wild gaze met Athos’ eyes, silently pleading with the swordsman to save him from the agony.

 

_ But what can I do to help you, brother?   _

_ I should not call you my brother…. I have no right… _

 

Suddenly, Aramis collapsed, and landed in Athos’ arms. His body was still too tense for him to be completely unconscious. Athos wrapped his arms around his friend, trying to ignore the horrible wheezing which accompanied each breath the marksman took. 

 

The lieutenant managed to partially cover Aramis with the blanket. He knew he really should try to get the injured man to lie down. He needed to continue his examination.

 

_ But should I deny him what little comfort he seems to be getting? _

_ Why should I even bother to assess his injuries?  I can’t do anything to help him.  _

 

_ He’s calmer now….but is that a good sign? Or a bad one? _

_ Has he been fatally injured?! _

 

His scarf was out of reach now, and Athos used his fingers to gently wipe away soot and blood from Aramis’ lips. 

 

He used the tip of his rapier to snag the waterskin from his saddle. He opened it, then touched it to Aramis’ lips. 

 

“Drink, brother. You need water.”

 

Athos tipped the waterskin back a bit. A little water trickled down his hand, and he was reminded of how difficult it was to get a semi-conscious person to drink. He desperately hoped his friend would swallow.

 

_ What if he aspirates the water into his lungs instead? _

 

_ If someone attacks now, we are done for... _

 

Athos knew he should move them to a more secure position, but there was no will to fight left in his aching heart. 

 

They could not stay there for long. Aramis badly needed professional help. Night was drawing near. It would be too cold to camp without a fire--even if the injured musketeer was burning with fever. 

 

They were essentially defenseless at this point. Why had the others not joined them? 

As day faded into night,  Athos knew with certainty that his comrades would not come.

 

_ Perhaps they have been taken prisoner.  _

_ They might already be dead for all I know. _

 

He tried not to keep his dark thoughts from spiraling out of control.

 

_ There is another possibility. They may have passed by at a distance, and failed to sight us _ . 

 

He wanted to believe that this was the case, but…

 

The marksman was tormented by another bout of coughing, and Athos tightened his hold on his friend. Aramis whimpered, and Athos’ heart shattered. 

 

“Please…” the lieutenant whispered

 

Aramis quieted, and lay trembling in Athos’ arms. 

 

“I need to check on you,” the swordsman murmured. But Aramis would not let go of him.

 

_ Perhaps it is best to just let him rest. There is really nothing I can do for him at this point. At least he has no significant ongoing bleeding as far as I can see. _

 

He planted a gentle kiss in Aramis’ hair. 

 

_ I should have taken better care of his injuries-at least cleaned them properly.  _

_ Aramis would have known exactly what to do if our roles had been reversed.  _

 

Suddenly, Athos heard the rustle of leaves, followed by the snap of a small stick. 

 

He immediately untangled himself from Aramis, steeling himself against the injured man’s whimpers. When the medic’s hand tried to stop him, Athos shoved it away.

 

He primed his pistol, and took up a stance in front of his brother, shielding him from the approaching threat.

 

There odds were not in their favor. He spared one last glance at his friend, and saw that the wounded musketeer was curled up on his right side, trying to conserve as much body heat as possible.

 

The dim shape of a horse appeared in the bushes. Athos could not see the rider. 

 

“Stop or I shoot!” he called out.

 

The horse did not move. Athos recognized the familiar white star on its head.

It was Orage.

 

Still, he kept his pistol aimed at her, waiting for a rider to materialize. When no one appeared, he reached for her reins. The mare looked exhausted. She was covered with splotches of mud, but did not seem injured. However, by the way she hungrily nuzzled Athos’ palm, he was sure she was in need of something to eat.

 

The lieutenant realized he had been holding his breath, and slowly exhaled. He dug through Aramis’ saddlebag in the hopes of finding something useful. 

 

He found herbs. Packets of herbs meticulously labeled with Aramis’ elegant writing. Unfortunately, in Athos’ untrained hands, they were useless.  However, he did retrieve some clean bandages and a flask of brandy, and returned to his brother. 

 

He waited until a bout of coughing passed, then put his hand on Aramis’ arm.

 

“I need to take care of your injuries. Then I promise to let you sleep.”

 

_ Or rather to remain unconscious. As if I could revive you… I wish I could… _

 

He poured some brandy on a cloth, and started to clean Aramis’ face. The man moaned when the alcohol came into contact with his wounds, and tried to elude Athos’ hands. His struggle was abruptly ended by a series of coughs, which left him gasping for air. Tears fell down his ashen face. 

 

Athos gently stroked his cheek, then froze when he once again saw black and red stains on the marksman’s lips.

 

“Mis…”.he choked. Wetting the cloth with another measure of brandy, he gently wiped the medic’s mouth. It was best to the clean the cut lip with alcohol.

 

Aramis whimpered softly. 

 

Athos reached for the bandages. When he glanced at Aramis once again, his heart almost stopped. Brown eyes filled with pain were watching him... or rather, looking through him.

 

_ Was Aramis blind?!  A blow to the head could have done it. Smoke could have done it. What am I thinking? I haven’t even checked him for burns!  _

 

“Aramis?”

He slowly moved his hand before the marksman’s eyes, but his gaze did not focus. Athos’ blood went cold.

 

“What can I do to help you?” the swordsman whispered, gently touching the medic’s face. He knew how desperately Aramis needed the touch of another human in order to anchor him. 

 

_ Even the touch of his tormentor.  _

 

Aramis’ cheek leaned into his palm. Athos once again tried to give him some water. This time he succeeded, and his brother drank greedily--only to choke, and then vomit all the precious water. 

 

Athos held Aramis in a semi upright position as the heaves tormented his body. Finally, the marksman went limp. His frantic gasps for air were agonizing for Athos to witness.

 

_ At least I know he’s still alive... _

 

The lieutenant gently lowered Aramis to the ground. At last, he had a chance to thoroughly check his brother’s body for injuries. To his surprise, he found no broken bones under the large bruises that covered the medic’s body. In addition, Aramis seemed to have somehow escaped the stake without any burns. 

 

Athos retrieved a blanket that had been tucked under Orage’s saddle, and covered the marksman with it. 

 

The night would be cold. He decided to collect some wood and start a small fire. This time, Aramis did not try to stop him. He lay curled up under the blanket, his body trembling.

 

Athos did his best to hide the fire by kindling it in a hole that he had dug in the ground. He dragged Aramis over to it. The smoke began to drift over the injured man, and the medic became restless. An instant later, Aramis’ eyes flew open, wild with fear. He started to frantically try to crawl away, the panic on his face illuminated by the warm glow of fire. 

 

Athos cursed himself for his stupidity. He took Aramis in his arms, burying the medic’s face in the crook of his neck. 

 

“You’re safe, Aramis. You’re free. You’re safe,”he whispered, cradling his brother in his arms. 

 

After a long moment, the marksman relaxed, and went limp. However, Athos was reluctant to break contact. Aramis seemed to remain calmer when he was secure in his brother’s arms.

 

_ Aramis… please forgive me…   _

_ I’ve failed you. _

_ I don’t deserve to call myself your brother… _

_ Please, live…. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess I should look for a cover and do it fast!  
> Still I'd love to know your thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

Pain. His head was pounding. 

_ Again.  _

_ Something hard has met my skull again. _

 

But the pain was not the worst of it. The musketeer soon realized that his hands were bound. His body ached as well, the cold penetrating through his wet leather. 

 

_ Why was his leather so wet? Was it blood? _

 

He could smell blood.

 

Another very disturbing fact-- he realized that he was leaning forward. The ropes that bound him were keeping him upright. That was not a good sign. 

 

The other awful thing was the gag in his mouth. It tasted like an old dusty rag.

 

Porthos tried to remember what had led him into such a frustrating situation.

 

_ We were retreating, and the Queen was with us.  Athos had her on his horse… that’s the last thing I remember. I must have been hit… probably while I was on my horse…  _

 

Approaching footsteps--the measured footsteps of a soldier--put a halt to his musings. 

 

An instant later, a bucket of cold water was thrown in his face. He started to cough. 

 

“That’s better, dog!” a man jeered. “Open your eyes, and take a look at the show that our leader has prepared for you!”

 

Porthos shivered. Something in the voice was familiar. He slowly opened his eyes. 

 

_ A Red Guard. What was his name...Jacques? _

 

Although Porthos was not sure what the man’s name was, he recognized his voice immediately. This was one of the men who were quick to mock Porthos, but always avoided fighting him. Any run-in with one of these Red Guards usually ended with Aramis, rather than his dark-skinned comrade, beating the offender.

 

As his vision cleared, Porthos saw that the Red Guard was smirking.

 

_ Dirty traitor. _

 

Porthos slowly took in his surroundings. He was bound to a tree in the bandits’ camp. The ruined building where the Queen had been kept was on his left. He noticed that the air seemed foggy. He blinked several times, then realized that it was not fog, but smoke. His eyes were drawn to a small open window. It was exactly like the one he and Athos had peered into in order to spy on the enemy. 

 

If he had known what scene would greet him, he would have never glanced inside. Seeing the Queen, clad only in a thin nightshirt and lying on a pile of Red Guards’ cloaks, was too awful. 

 

He hoped for Aramis’ sake that she had been drugged. 

He wanted to believe that she had not betrayed them all by orchestrating her own kidnapping. 

 

His thoughts returned to harsh reality when he sighted a familiar head through the curtain of smoke. 

 

ARAMIS!!!!

 

Porthos desperately tried to break free. He struggled against the thick ropes, his muscles straining with effort. 

 

Then his brother lifted his head, and their eyes met.

 

If he had not been gagged, Porthos would have howled. He saw fear in his friend’s beloved brown orbs. 

 

He tried to convey with his gaze all of his brotherhood, friendship, love, and support. His heart shattered when he saw the sad acceptance and look of regret in Aramis’ eyes.

 

_ I need to be at his side. I need to get him out! _

 

The smoke soon became too thick for him to see his beloved brother. Porthos’ heart sank when he saw a few yellowish tongues of fire. 

 

He screamed through the gag. It transformed his shout into a growl of desperation. He could not watch his brother being executed in a such a cruel way.

 

Aramis went limp, his silhouette now barely visible. In that instant, Porthos saw red. 

 

Suddenly, he was free. The rope must have finally given way. He tore out the gag and shouted his friend’s name. It was then that he saw his brother’s limp form being dragged from the building. 

 

_ Athos _ .

 

Porthos caught a movement on his right. He cut the distance in an instant, and hurled the attacker over his head. He became aware of another enemy. He saw the blade approaching, but the rapier never reached him. A second later, Porthos felt the vulnerable body under his hands. and he ended the traitor’s life. 

 

His brother was safe. Dead or alive, he was safe.. 

 

There was no reason to fight his fierce desire for revenge. There was a flame burning his heart and injuring his soul. The pain it caused could only be soothed by blood...the blood of those who had dared to harm Aramis. They had tried to take his beloved friend away from him. 

 

That was unforgivable. 

 

Suddenly, there was no opponent for him to fight. As Porthos stood still, trying to catch his breath, he saw a movement. He charged, easily knocking his enemy to the ground. 

 

His large hands easily wrapped around his victim’s neck. He slowly started to strangle him. The man gave an awful choking sound, exactly as was expected. However, something was wrong. The body under him had stilled. 

 

Porthos heard his name being shouted from a distance. He glanced up, and saw a silhouette in a blue cloak. He slowly exhaled, and started to get up.

 

Morineau was calling for d’Artagnan. 

 

Porthos quickly scanned the battlefield. He felt a pang of fear when he did not see the boy amongst the other men who were milling about. He spared one last glance at his victim, and froze.

 

_ D’Artagnan!!! No!!! _

 

The boy lay still.

 

Porthos’ throat tightened, and he felt as if he could not breathe.

 

He had hurt his brother! 

 

He stared at d’Artagnan’s lifeless form, too afraid to touch him.

 

He was supposed to protect his brother, not kill him!!

 

He took a few steps back.

 

“Porthos?!” Morineau was suddenly at his side. The big man did not respond, his mind still trying to understand how he could mistake a friend for a foe… and fail his brother so utterly.

 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan gasped for air, his hands shooting to his throat.

 

“Easy, lad,” Morineau murmured.

 

The Gascon blinked, and frantically tried to swallow. The musketeer gently lifted him up, supporting the injured man against his knees. He gave him a sip of water, and the boy swallowed it, wincing in pain. 

 

_ I did it to him…. It’s my fault!  _

 

D’Artagnan struggled to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows. 

 

“I am so sorry!” Porthos burst out.

 

D’Artagnan, his fingers exploring his throat for injuries, looked up at the big man. He gave his brother a tentative smile. showing that he bore no ill will. But Porthos’ anger at himself was not so easily soothed. 

 

“Everyone here is dead,” said Morineau flatly.“I searched the bodies, and kept all the papers I found. They might give us some useful information. As soon as you’re ready, we can go.”

 

“Where’s Athos…?” d’Artagnan croaked. 

 

Porthos felt another pang of guilt. He was reminded of the time they had wanted to finish off Allancourt in a suicidal mission. 

 

“He wanted to follow the others. I suppose his degree of success must have depended on Aramis’ condition.”

 

“How was he?” The Gascon was stubbornly asking questions, despite the pain it obviously caused him. 

 

“Unconscious,” Morineau replied curtly. “We did not have exactly have the time to thoroughly examine him.”

 

_ But alive?! Was he alive?!  _

 

“I was able to retrieve his weapon.” Morineau said. He went to hand it to Porthos. 

 

_ He’s acting like Aramis is already dead! _

 

“Keep it. You can give it to Aramis yourself.” Porthos kept his voice low, not wanting to betray his anguish. 

 

They set out from the camp. Portho’ body protested as he mounted his horse.. He managed to get into the saddle, but his side and arm hurt like hell. He could not recall exactly when and how he had been hit. But the details did not matter right now. He had to find Aramis...and make sure that his brother was safe and well.

 

They rode for a long time...too long. Normally, Porthos would have asked d’Artagnan if they had gone too far. However, each time he glanced at the boy, guilt darkened his thoughts. His eyes were inevitably drawn to the red fingerprints on the boy’s neck, which were now turning a deep purple. 

 

Suddenly, Morineau stopped his horse.

 

“We’ve gone too far. We must have missed them,” Porthos growled.

 

D’Artagnan nodded. “Athos must have looked for some shelter in order to check on Aramis.”

 

_ And what he found made him stay at this shelter. What did they do to you, Aramis? _

 

They rode back. This time, d’Artagnan spent more time paying attention to tracks on the road. However, dusk made his task more and more difficult. They finally returned to the site of the camp. 

 

“Where are they?!” Porthos could feel his nervous energy finally succumbing to his fatigue. 

 

“There was a stream close by,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Athos could have used it to cover his tracks.”

 

Porthos nodded, and urged his horse into a gallop. The tired beast reluctantly obeyed. They reached the stream quickly.

“Now where?” asked Porthos. 

 

D’Artagnan looked around, then pointed.

 

“The terrain in that direction seems more forgiving. I suspect we may find a clearing there.”

 

“I’ll check the other side,” Morineau offered. 

 

They split up.

 

_ Never a good idea.  _

 

A few minutes later, d’Artagnan halted abruptly. He left the stream, and dismounted. He disappeared into the dark forest. Porthos readied his gun, only to hear the lad’s hoarse voice call out, “Athos, don’t shoot!”

 

Porthos directed Vent towards the boy to the loud accompaniment of snapping twigs and rustling leaves. 

 

Porthos froze at the sight which greeted him, but Vent continued to move forward towards Athos. The lieutenant was holding Aramis in his arms. With a quick nod, Athos signaled to them that the place was safe, and that they were free to join him. Primed pistols lay within reach of his hand. 

 

Porthos could not averted his eyes from marksman’s still body. He did not like seeing the white bandage that was wrapped around his brother’s head. However, he was much more alarmed by Aramis’ pale skin, which was clearly visible even in the dim light of the hidden fire.

 

In lieu of a greeting, Porthos immediately asked, “How is he?”

 

“Bad.”  Athos’ voice was grave.

 

Porthos slid from his horse in one smooth motion, and landed on his knees next to his brother. He did not want to have to test his ability to stay upright. Porthos extended his hand, and gently touched Aramis’ cheek. He immediately recoiled, shaken by the heat that he felt.

 

“What’s wrong with him? He’s burning up!”  He hoped that his anxious words would provoke a response from the wounded man.

 

“Quiet!” Athos ordered. “He needs to sleep. He has been in a lot of pain.”

 

The lieutenant’s words only increased Porthos’ fear. There seemed to be a sad finality in his voice. 

 

“What is wrong with him?!” This time, his voice was a hoarse whisper. Each word seemed to be tearing a hole in his heart.

 

Athos sighed. “He has been beaten badly. I suspect that he has a severe concussion.” 

 

“What about his fever? A concussion doesn’t explain that!”

 

Athos averted his eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t find any evidence of infection when I examined him, but I might have missed something.”

 

“What do you mean  _ missed _ ?!”  Porthos growled.

 

“He was tormented by his cough...” Athos’ voice trailed off. He dipped his head, guilt radiating from his posture.

 

“My guess is he was trapped in the smoke for a significant period of time,” d’Artagnan said hesitantly. “I saw it happen once with a young girl in Gascony.  She was trapped in a burning house for quite some time before a neighbor was able to brave the flames and rescue her. When he carried her out, she was unconscious. There was no burn on her body, but she had a high fever…”

 

“And?” Porthos glanced at d’Artagnan. The boy suddenly avoided his gaze.

 

“She died,” Athos murmured.

 

The Gascon did not reply. Instead, he began to search through Aramis’ saddle bags.  Pulling out some herbs, he said, “I can prepare a draught for him. It will soothe his throat.” When no one made any comment, he went to work.

 

Athos’ eyes traveled over his friend. “Are you wounded, Porthos?” 

 

The big man felt awkward under his leader’s scrutinous gaze, “No.” Then he thought about his stiff arm, hurting side, and mercilessly pounding head. “Well, maybe a bit.”

 

“I’ll take care of him,” d’Artagnan muttered, mixing something in a cup. “Don’t move.”

 

“It’s my fault, Porthos,” Athos whispered, his fingers absently stroking Aramis’ hair.

 

His brother was taken aback. “What?!”

 

_ Are you telling me you have something to do with Aramis’ condition?!  Or is this your typical self-loathing speaking? _

 

“I left you.”

 

“Athos, I don’t know what happened. I recall riding close to you. Then it’s all a blank. The next thing I knew, I had regained consciousness, only to find the damn church on fire. I just want to know what happened in between.” Despite the emotions that were roiling within him, Porthos was careful to keep his voice low and controlled.

 

“You fell. Aramis cut through the bandits to get to you. He stayed by your side while we rode off.”

 

“Stupid idiot!” Porthos murmured. Despite his words, his affection for his brother was clear in his voice.

 

“I left you.” Athos repeated.

 

The big man shook his head. “Nah, you had the Queen to save. When we joined the regiment, we swore to give our lives for the Crown if necessary. A fallen soldier--even if he is a fallen brother--is still just another fallen soldier.”

 

“Aramis thought otherwise.”

 

“Aramis did not have his arms full with a semiconscious Queen! So enough of this, Athos! It’s not your fault.”  Porthos just did not feel up to dealing with his brother’s guilt. 

 

“Athos?” The Gascon approached them, and Porthos was grateful to him for interrupting their conversation. “Did Aramis say anything about his eyes hurting?”

 

Athos blanched. “No. But to be honest, he was not lucid enough to complain of anything.  I..I saw that his eyes were bloodshot. They appeared uninjured--” 

He hesitated for a moment, then said,” But I am not sure he could see.”

 

“What?!” Porthos choked.

 

Athos closed his eyes in defeat.

 

D’Artagnan focused on dealing with Porthos’ leather. The musketeer tried to help him, but his eyes were fixed on Aramis, and his body was not eager to cooperate. Finally, d’Artagnan managed to divest him of his doublet. 

 

The boy sucked in a breath, then swore. “Athos, I need your help.” 

 

Porthos glanced down at his side, grimacing when he saw the bloody mess.

 

Athos sighed, and slowly began to lower the marksman to the ground. Aramis whimpered, and tried to lean into the swordsman. Then he started to cough. As the sound morphed into a terrible wheezing, Porthos’ fear intensified. He shook off d’Artagnan, and leapt towards his ailing brother.

 

“Aramis! Mis!” Porthos cried. He cupped the medic’s face in his trembling hands.

 

The marksman blinked sluggishly. For a long moment, his pained eyes seemed to stare blankly into space.

 

D’Artagnan came to his side, and offered him a steaming cup of herbal tea.

 

“Drink, Aramis. It will soothe your throat.”

 

The marksman cautiously took a sip, wincing as he swallowed. However, he took another without coaxing.

 

He drank half the cup, then closed his eyes and leaned into Porthos’ supporting hands.

 

Athos began to lower the marksman once again. “Aramis, I need to lay you down. I have to help d’Artagnan sew up Porthos.” 

 

The marksman shook his head violently. Another horrible fit of coughing took hold of him. He moaned in pain, then tried to curl up into a ball. His fingers dug into Athos’ hand.

 

Finally, the coughing passed, leaving the medic frantically gasping for air. After a moment, the injured man mumbled something, his voice too low for Porthos to hear. But he saw Aramis squeeze Athos’ hand briefly, then push him away. He clearly wanted Athos to help d’Artagnan take care of Porthos.

 

“I’m fine, Mis,” the dark skinned musketeer said soothingly, trying to calm the medic. “I don’t have any injuries that require patching up.” 

 

He never expected the reaction he got...but he should have been ready for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for long delay.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hope it's worth waiting.

Constance

 

She could not stop glancing behind her, past the musketeers who were their rear guard. Each time, she hoped to see her boys riding towards them. But only a muddy, empty road lay behind them. She fought back the tears that threatened to fill her eyes. 

 

“They will join us at the estate,” Etienne murmured reassuringly. He was riding next to her. The Queen lay in his arms, wrapped in several of the musketeers’ blue cloaks. So far, Anne had yet to truly regain consciousness. Constance was not sure how much of the Queen’s stupor was actually due to the drug. She suspected that the young woman’s mind sought sleep in order to escape reality.

 

Anne’s life had been difficult at times, but nothing had prepared her for this type of violence. To be honest, she had never been prepared for any kind of physical violence. After all, she had the royal guard to protect her...she had the Musketeers.

 

_ But how can you ever really be prepared for a rape?  _

 

Constance knew that the first priority when Anne regained consciousness would be to create a good plan. Unfortunately, rescuing the young queen from the bandits’ hands did not guarantee her safety. The situation could easily become dire for her.

 

_ Men rape women in our society all too frequently, and most get away with it. But for a woman who has been sexually assaulted, there is no place for her other than in a convent--or on the street. _

 

While a queen would not be thrown onto the street, banishment to a convent was more than likely...and Constance was sure that Anne would not survive long once separated from her son--and her beloved musketeer. 

 

Furthermore, Constance knew that the stakes were much higher than the happiness--or even the life--of her royal friend. 

 

Anne suddenly started to struggle, and Etienne attempted to calm her. “Hush.”His voice was not stern, but it was unmistakably male. The Queen began to panic, thrashing in his arms.

 

“Stop!” Constance ordered. She dismounted in a flash, and went to the side of her Queen.

 

“Anne, I’m here with you,” she said softly. 

 

The Queen appeared not to hear her, and cried out, “Let me go!”

 

Constance looked up at Etienne, and nodded. He carefully loosened his grip, and allowed the Queen to slip straight into Constance’s arms.

 

“Anne, you are safe,” whispered the redhead. 

 

The shivering Queen clung to her desperately.

 

The women stood for a long moment, their arms wrapped around each other. 

 

Etienne glanced around them nervously.“Constance, we need to go.”

 

“Anne will ride with me,” Constance said decisively. Her friend did not protest, and her silent acceptance made Constance uneasy. They rode together. Despite being wrapped in several cloaks, the Queen was trembling. She refused any food or water. Her pupils were still huge, but it was difficult to say if this was caused by the drug or the dim light… or possibly by fear. Constance could not help but notice that whenever they stopped, her friend kept her eyes trained on the musketeers.

 

After a time, Anne seemed to become more lucid. Constance wrapped her arms around the young monarch, murmuring a few reassuring words.

 

“You’re safe, Anne,” she said soothingly.

 

“No. I’m not,” the Queen replied bitterly, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m finished.” 

 

“You are no such thing,” Constance told her firmly. “There’s no denying that we have failed you. But we haven’t deserted you, and we’ll stay by your side as long as you wish.”

 

“We?” Anne seemed to be desperate to focus on facts and plans, not on her emotions. 

 

The Queen looked around, clearly searching for Aramis and his brothers. Her lip trembled when she did not see them. 

 

“Where are they?” Her voice was tremulous, but there was no mistaking the demanding note in her voice.

 

“They have been delayed,” Constance murmured.

 

“Constance! I want the truth!” Anne hissed. Her eyes were full of fury and despair.

“I need to know…” she added, her voice now pleading.

 

The redhead looked at her for a moment.

 

_ Do you really need to know?  _

 

Then it struck her - what Anne needed was to regain control of her life--the control which had been taken away from her so brutally.

 

“Porthos was injured, and Aramis stayed with him. The others went back to look for them. That’s all I know.”

 

Anne nodded slowly, and Constance said, “We really need to go now.”

Blue eyes full of despair met hers. 

“Where?” 

 

Constance felt her heart sink. The Queen sounded so lost!

 

“To the estate--the one you so generously gave us permission to use while the injured musketeers recover. The others will join us there, and we will come with a good plan.”

 

Anne shook her head. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to trust anyone again.”

 

She was silent for a moment, then spoke, her eyes brimming with tears.

 

“Did you know he was my friend? Before I ever came to Paris? When I was just a young Spanish princess, he taught me about France--about what to expect at court. He prepared me for life in Paris….he…. “ 

 

Anne choked back a sob, then continued.  “I treated him like my older brother. Philippe--my real older brother--never had any time for me. Then he just disappeared one day--only to come back and… take me.” 

 

Constance was shaken to her core by her friend’s words “Are you referring to Rochefort?!” 

 

Anne continued on, her voice dull. “The worst part of all is that my husband will believe anything Rochefort tells him. But was the Comte always so cruel and possessive? Or did the time he spent in a Spanish prison change him? I want to believe that he was warped by the time he spent behind bars, but if that is true… did Allancourt’s men transform Aramis into a cruel beast? Is the Aramis I loved dead to me?” Her voice was now barely audible. “ Athos has as much as told me so.”  

 

“Aramis would never hurt you, Anne,” Constance replied gently. Her words were soothing and calm, but her friend’s doubts broke her heart.

 

“I am not sure if I can believe that anymore,” the Queen said sadly. She dried her eyes, then looked up at Constance. “I suppose we should go, shouldn’t we?”

 

Constance looked at her awkwardly. There was one very important question that she had to ask. She really had no desire to have this conversation now, but time was against them.

 

“Anne… Forgive me, but I must ask you something. I know this is terribly personal, but do you think you may have been pregnant… before?”

 

“No.” The Queen appeared puzzled for an instant. Then wild panic appeared in her eyes. “My God! That possibility never even occurred to me!!”  

 

“It did to me,” the redhead whispered. “But don’t despair. I have some herbs. I was warned they may have some nasty side effects… but they should… help.”

 

“Give them to me--now!” Anne ordered tearfully, “I cannot....” 

As her voice trailed off, her wide eyes met Constance’s. Disgust and trepidation were clear on her pale, bruised face.

 

The redhead nodded. She reached into her pocket and took out a small bottle securely wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it, then uncorked it with her teeth. 

 

She handed it to Anne. “No more than five sips.”

The Queen brought the bottle to her lips, following the instructions to the letter.

 

“Keep the rest. If you think it necessary, take a second dose--but make sure someone is with you. I hope I will be allowed to stay with you.”

 

Anne nodded absentmindedly.

 

Etienne approached, and bowed to the two women. 

“Your Majesty, we should go.’

 

They were soon on their way. Anne rode with Constance. The redhead found her thoughts wandering.

 

_ I wish I knew how to help you. First, we must get rid of Rochefort. _

_ Am I already planning a murder? It seems so. But he has to be stopped.  _

_ I hope Treville will have a good plan....I hope he has recovered. _

_ Where are my musketeers?! I need them!  _

 

Constance’s anxiety grew with each hour that Athos and the others failed to return. Their delay was surely a bad sign. Perhaps they had been captured, or badly wounded during their rescue mission. They might have failed on an initial attempt, and be waiting for an opportunity to strike again. Constance desperately tried not to think about the worst possibility, but a sudden spike of fear pierced her heart,

 

What if they were dead? What if she had to face the world alone from now on?

 

_ No! I cannot think like that!  I have to take care of the Queen. Especially now that the situation may be too challenging for Aramis.   _

_ If he ever returns…  _

 

Constance remembered all too vividly the horrible hours in Fontainebleau when Aramis had pleaded for death to take him. His only desire had been to rejoin the brother he was convinced he had killed. If Porthos had indeed died, Aramis would have surely followed him. His forbidden love for Anne would not have been enough to keep him alive. 

 

Finally, they entered the gardens surrounding the estate. The property looked abandoned. Not a ray of light could be seen through the thick curtains. 

 

“It’s empty,” Anne whispered, bitterly disappointment. 

 

“No, it’s not,” the redhead replied. She forced herself to try to stay calm, even as her heart started to beat wildly.

 

_ It shouldn't be. _

 

The distance to the building seemed endless. They rode for an eternity before Etienne shouted out a plea for any occupants to hold their fire.

 

“Identify yourself!” came the reply.

 

The musketeers’ lieutenant answered tersely, “Etienne!”

Constance saw that most of the men had their hands on their weapons.

 

“Christian here. Come in!”

The men relaxed when they heard the reply.

 

Constance helped Anne dismount. She left the care of her horse to the musketeers, and led the Queen into the estate.  She decided to take Anne to the room she had shared with d’Artagnan. There was a large bathtub there, as well as some spare clothes.

 

Christian greeted them on the stairs, musket in hand. Constance put a hand on his arm. “I need some hot water, and a medical kit.”

 

When he realized that the swaying figure supported by Constance was his Queen, the musketeer bowed, his eyes full of concern.

 

“I will arrange for it straightaway, Madame. The Captain has asked a report from Athos and his men, and he would like a report from you as well.”

 

“Tell him I will  be… delayed. I will report to him just as soon as Her Majesty is settled comfortably. She is unwell, and needs my help right now.”

 

“Shall I send for Vimaire to attend her?”

 

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” 

She did not want any man to touch Anne. Her trauma was still too raw--too fresh.

 

She took Anne to the small room adjoining d’Artagnan’s, which had been assigned to Constance. The bed was untouched, as she had spent the nights in her lover’s bed.

 

_ If you get yourself killed, I’ll beat you to death all over again... _

 

Constance pushed her fears to the side, and briskly started to prepare a bath for Anne. One of the men had already brought her everything that she needed.

 

Anne sat motionless on the bed.

 

“Who is the Captain now?” she asked, her voice tense.

 

“Treville, as always,” Constance replied reassuringly.  She could not imagine anyone else as the leader of the musketeers. “He was seriously wounded, but he managed to make it here to the estate. That’s how we knew you had been taken.”

 

The Queen met her eyes.  “Constance, I want to be a part of this. I will not be regarded as a damaged thing that has nothing to say.”  The order was cold, but an undercurrent of desperation ran through her words.

 

The redhead returned her gaze with compassion. She understood that Anne needed to feel like a person--not an object which has been in turns protected, kidnapped, and used.

 

_ In fact, _ Constance thought,  _ Anne has been treated like a commodity her entire life. _

 

First the young Spanish princess had been betrothed to achieve peace between two warring countries. Her mission as Queen of France was to give the King an heir. Now she had been abused by a madman--a man who had befriended her as a girl, then treated her like his possession when he had no right to her. 

 

Constance helped Anne wash. Then she put some of Aramis’ salve on the bruises that covered parts of her body. In a modest, simple dress, Anne looked like a lost little girl. 

 

Minutes later, Constance and Anne went to see the Captain. The redhead knocked softly on the door.

 

“Enter!” Treville ordered. 

 

They came into the room. The Captain was lying on the bed, propped up by several pillows. Etienne stood next to the bed. He had probably been giving his report.

 

“Your Majesty!” Treville tried to lift himself up.

 

“Lie down!” she ordered, her voice trembling a bit. “You must not injure yourself, Captain.”

 

Etienne shifted uncomfortably. “I can come back later to finish my report.”

 

Anne lifted her chin. “No. You will finish your report now.” 

 

The musketeer obeyed. Once he had finished, he bowed, then took his leave. 

 

The Queen approached the bed, her eyes softening. 

“Captain. It’s good to see you alive, and on the road to recovery.”

 

“Your Majesty, I am relieved to see you safe.”

“I am not safe.” Anne’s voice broke, and she struggled to regain her composure. “Rochefort was behind my kidnapping.--and I believe he escaped when your men rescued me.” She shivered, and Constance took her hand. The Queen took in a breath, then continued. 

 

“I am afraid he is on his way to Paris. He wants to get to to the King first in order to compromise me. He is going to accuse me of attempting to leave France and seek shelter in Spain. According to him, I was ready to sell French secrets to my brother in exchange for being given a peaceful estate to live out the rest of my life in comfort. He also intends to question my fidelity to my husband.” She paused, clearly unable to speak any further.

 

“Has he any cause to make such accusations?” Treville asked gravely.

 

Anne looked at him in shock.

 

Treville’s steely blue eyes met the Queen’s. When he spoke, his voice was firm. 

 

“Your Majesty, please forgive me, but I need to know the truth before I endanger the lives of my men.” 

 

Anne gasped. Her fingers squeezed Constance’s hand, and she took in a deep breath.

 

“I would never seek shelter in Spain,” she said steadfastly. “Nor would I compromise the safety of France in order to gain security for myself.” 

 

An instant later, the fierce light in her eyes dimmed, and she swallowed.

 

“Rochefort…he is a monster. He drugged me against my will, then forced me to lay with him. He is the traitor, not me!” Her wide eyes begged the Captain to believe her. 

 

Treville went deathly pale, and appeared shaken.

“Please tell me I have heard you incorrectly.”

 

“You have not. I must be open with you, Captain. You are considering betraying your King in order to help me, so you deserve to know everything. Louis’ trust in Rochefort is unshakable, and no words will change his mind. As far as my fidelity--” she hesitated, and lowered her eyes.  “I have betrayed my husband only once.”

 

Treville looked surprised for an instant, then understanding flickered in his eyes. 

 

“Do I need to know with whom?” he asked.

 

Constance wondered if he had already guessed the truth. Perhaps he wanted to know just how much the identity of the Queen’s lover might complicate the situation.

 

“I am afraid you do...but you must know that I seduced him. I did it because I loved him--and because if I remained childless, I was sure to die… sooner or later.  I needed a child to survive.”

 

“So Aramis is Dauphin’s father?” the Captain whispered. 

 

Anne nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Please do not punish him!” 

 

She  dropped to her knees. “If you wish for me to disappear,  I will do so. I only ask for an escort to guide me to the nearest border.”

 

Constance knelt next to her, and put her arms around her friend. Both women held their breath as they awaited Treville’s reply. 

 

_ If the Inseparables are alive, they will follow you if you leave. Then you will be finally with Aramis, and I can be with d’Artagnan. We will start a new life somewhere else.  It all depends on Treville’s decision. _

 

Despite her thoughts, Constance knew that life in exile would be very difficult--but she doubted that the Captain would force Anne to face a trial. 

 

Treville sighed heavily, then reached for the Queen’s hand, raising her up.

 When he spoke, his voice was solemn.

 

“As long as you remain loyal to France, I will stay by your side, your Majesty.” 

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Athos

 

He never understood what happened next. With one swift movement, Aramis reached for Porthos, his hands grasping the big man’s shirt. Wild desperation was clear in his dark eyes. 

 

_ At least he can see. _

 

Athos waited, uncertain what to do.  He could not be sure of his brother’s mental state.

 

He watched as Aramis’ fingers ghosted over Porthos’ wounded side, then briefly touched his head. 

 

The medic took in shallow breaths, trying to avoid a coughing fit. His hands shook slightly. 

 

“Aramis, I’ll take care of him,” Athos said softly. The marksman met his gaze, his desperate eye pleading. He then turned back to Porthos’ wounds.  

 

Athos took a closer look at the injury. It was truly awful. He guessed that the slash had been made by a strong man wielding a serrated blade.

 

He sighed, and glanced at Aramis. “We need to cauterize it.”

His brother gave him a slight nod, but Athos could see that there was some doubt in his expressive brown eyes.

 

The last thing Athos wanted to do was to inflict pain on any of his brothers. However, this time, he could not avoid it. 

 

“I’ll do it, Aramis,” he said gently.

 

The medic clearly wanted to answer, but he started to cough violently. Athos supported him, and saw that d’Artagnan had coaxed Porthos to stay put. He gave the Gascon a nod of gratitude.

 

Aramis leaned his forehead against Athos’ arm. He was struggling to breathe. The swordsman gently rubbed his back. Then a thought occurred to him. He had never checked Aramis’ back for injuries.

 

“D’Artagnan? Look at his back--make sure there are no injuries!” he ordered.

 

The Gascon obeyed. Athos’ heart stuttered when he saw d’Artagnan wince.

 

“What is it?” The swordsman struggled to keep his voice calm.

 

“Bruises. Mainly on the left. They really did a number on him.”

 

Aramis squeezed Athos’ hand lightly, but his nails dug into brother’s flesh for a moment.

_ I am here! Don’t talk about me like I’m not!  _

 

“It’s easy to forget that when you’re so quiet,” Athos murmured, his attention focused on the Gascon. When their little brother’s hands lightly touched the marksman’s back, the lieutenant felt Aramis stiffen.

 

After a few minutes, d’Artagnan finished his examination, and shook his head.

 

“I don’t think anything is broken, but I’m guessing it hurts like hell.” 

 

Athos glanced uneasily at Porthos. His brother lay dazed, his eyes now closed. Even close to unconsciousness, the big man kept a grip on Aramis’ leg.  

 

They needed to rest, but all Athos could give them was an order to set off soon. 

 

_ You know it’s nearly impossible with the condition Aramis in… but we have no choice. _

 

“Aramis how can we help you?” he asked, gently stroking the marksman’s hair.

 

The injured man was quiet for a moment. Then he tensed. Athos braced himself, preparing to hold his brother during another bout of coughing. However, the medic pulled away. His despairing gaze met Athos’ eyes, then turned to Porthos.  

 

Athos reached for a medical kit, but froze when he heard a sound. An instant later, two guns were aimed at the bushes. A familiar voice called out.

 

“Don’t shoot! It’s Morineau.”

 

Only then did Athos realize that Aramis had a dagger in his head, ready to throw at a moment’s notice. And not just any dagger--it was the swordsman’s dagger. The marksman caught his brother’s eye, and gave him a little smirk. His face was still much too ashen for Athos’ liking, and his breathing too shallow and fast--but finally, he was lucid. Athos knew that Aramis’ surge of energy would quickly pass as soon as he finished taking care of Porthos. Still, seeing Aramis ready to fight was a balm for swordsman’s guilt ridden soul. 

 

Aramis accepted a little pot of hot water from d’Artagnan, and added some dry leaves and flowers. Then he put it aside.

 

“You must hold him still,” the medic whispered.

 

“Should I prepare him?” Athos asked gravely, cracking his knuckles.

 

Aramis shook his head, and gestured towards Porthos’ bloody face.

 

“Concussion?” Athos guessed.

Aramis nodded.

 

The medic took a very thin dagger from his kit, and started to heat it.

 

“Should I wash the blood away?” d’Artagnan asked, a wet cloth already in his hand. 

 

Aramis nodded.  As d’Artagnan wiped away the blood, the medic’s eyes never left Porthos.

 

Athos folded a leather belt, and gently put it in Porthos’ mouth.

 

“Bite on it,” he ordered. “We cannot afford to make our presence known.”

 

Porthos blinked sluggishly.

 

“Mis?” he mumbled. 

 

The medic squeezed his hand, briefly touching his face. 

 

It spoke volumes about Porthos’ condition that these simple gestures managed to calm him down. He obediently bit down on the leather, merely flinching when d’Artagnan started to clean the wound. However, when Aramis started to work, Porthos began to struggle, trying to elude the pain that was being inflicted on him.

 

Athos focused on holding his brother as still as possible. Two other musketeers were needed to help him immobilize their suffering brother. Porthos’ painful cries were muffled by the leather, transforming into low growls of distress. It reminded them of the sound he had been making when they had found him.

 

The smell of burnt flesh was now in the air. Athos had expected it to be much stronger, but he couldn’t spare a glance at Aramis. His whole focus was on keeping Porthos still.

 

Suddenly, Porthos broke their hold, and curled up on his uninjured side. Athos looked at Aramis. The marksman slowly corked the bottle of brandy, his hands shaking a bit. Then he reached for a bandage, patiently waiting until his comrades had managed to straighten their brother. Athos lifted Porthos’ upper body a bit, giving Aramis better access to wind the bandage around the big man’s body. Once he finished, the medic gestured for Athos to lay their patient down. He then started to clean the head wound. 

 

_ A bullet graze. _

 

Although it had stopped bleeding some time ago, Aramis decided to stitch it. Athos was amazed to see how steady the medic’s hands were as he worked on the wound. This was the very same Aramis whose whole body had been trembling the last time he had flushed the wound with alcohol.

 

He gestured towards the bandages, and looked at Athos pleadingly. It was then that the swordsman realized that Aramis was begging him for help. 

 

_ I should have offered sooner. _

 

Athos took charge of patching up Porthos. Aramis closed his eyes and curled up on his side, close to the dark skinned musketeer. Just when it seemed that exhaustion had finally won, Aramis suddenly sat up, his eyes wide with panic. He frantically seized Athos’ hand.

 

“Rochefort! The True Musketeers’ leader-- it’s him!” he croaked, his voice barely audible. Talking was obviously not easy for him.

 

“He abused her!” Aramis whispered the horrible news, and paid for it with a terrible cough. Tears fell down his cheek as he struggled to breathe. 

 

D’Artagnan offered him some tea, but he shook his head violently. 

 

Athos gently rocked him. 

 

_ Rochefort.  _

_ This explains so much, but at the same time, it has made things much more complicated.The situation is far worse than I thought. We must leave immediately. _

 

He looked at the trembling form in his arms.

 

“We must go,”  he said slowly.

Aramis nodded against his chest. 

 

“What can we do to help you?” the swordsman asked gently.

 

Aramis shook his head slightly.

“Did d’Artagnan’s tea help?” Athos asked. 

 

The marksman waved his hand.

 

_ It soothes, but it doesn’t heal.  _

 

However, Aramis accepted the tea, and drank it slowly. As he handed the cup back to d’Artagnan, his hand shook badly. Athos internally winced at the sight.

 

Aramis looked to be close to passing out. Athos helped him to lean against the saddle, and somehow managed to keep him upright. After everything that had happened, it was a true miracle that his friend was able to function… 

 

_ At least long enough to help Porthos… as always, Aramis has put everyone’s needs before his own. _

 

“We will set off at first light.” the swordsman decided.

 

His comrades nodded in silence. Athos devised a guard rotation, then watched as d’Artagnan and Morineau set up their cots. The Gascon tried hard not to show how much his throat was bothering him. 

 

The swordsman had hoped for a peaceful night, but Aramis’ cough soon broke the silence. Athos immediately went to the medic’s side. When he realized that Aramis’ fever had spiked, he cursed under his breath. He took a wet cloth and put it on the marksman’s forehead. The injured man moaned softly. His breathing was too fast--and too shallow. 

 

“Aramis…” Athos murmured. “Breathe with me, brother.”  He placed Aramis’ palm on his own chest, hoping that the medic would feel its movement and breathe in time with it. However, the marksman succumbed to another coughing bout, and desperately gasped for air.

 

“Breathe, Aramis!” Athos whispered. He could feel Morineau’s and d’Artagnan’s anguished eyes on them.

 

The medic grasped his hand desperately.

“Can’t!”  he whispered, wild panic in his eyes. 

 

Athos felt a wave of despair threatening to engulf him. Aramis made a strange noise, then collapsed. Athos caught him, and held the medic against his chest. With each painful gasp that Aramis made, the swordsman felt his heart shatter.

 

_ We’re losing him. He has given the last of his strength to tend to Porthos.  _

 

“Athos?” D’Artagnan’s voice could not hide the fear he felt for their brother.

 

The swordsman gently stroked Aramis’ hair.

 

_ This is Porthos’ place, not mine… if I hadn’t left, he might still be able to take care of Aramis. If I hadn’t left THEM, Aramis would still be safe and whole. _

 

“He is still with us,” Athos replied.

 

_ But for how much longer?  _

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milady's POV

Anne

 

The oppressive darkness of the room was only slightly disturbed by the flickering flame of the candle she held in her hand. Fortunately, the heavy curtains would not betray her presence. She placed the candle on top of the mahogany cabinet, and started her methodic search. 

 

There were quite a few documents whose presence on Rochefort’s desk was justified. After all, the man was acting as a Prime Minister. Various complaints from nobles, petitions from people who felt they had been wronged… none of these were worth her attention. Each minute she spent here added to the danger, but she knew it was only place she was likely to find any clues. 

 

Anne left the letters on the table, and looked around the room. There must be something here that they could use as proof! If she failed to find it, all of them were doomed.

 

Suddenly, her wandering gaze was halted by a barely perceptible irregularity on the expensive tapestry that covered a large section of the opposite wall. It could have been just a flaw in the design, but further investigation revealed a small tear in an area where there were no other signs of damage. She cautiously lifted up the tapestry, and found that the wall underneath it was unscathed. Milady slid her slim fingers over the fabric, and felt something hidden inside. With a bit of work, she managed to slide out a tiny bottle.

 

_ Probably poison. But I cannot prove that I found it here. _

 

Frustrated, she put the bottle back, making sure she left no sign that it had been disturbed.

 

Her second visit to Rochefort’s apartments led her to his bedroom. The nobleman’s strong smell still hung in the air, and she found herself barely able to tolerate it. She forced herself to ignore it, and focused on searching for likely hiding places. She could not hold back a smile when she checked under the bed, and found a small hole in the floor.

 

_ Men are so predictable.  _

 

She was astonished to find the letter that the Queen had written to her brother, the King of Spain. Obviously it was a odd thing for Rochefort to have in his possession, but it could not be considered definitive proof. There was also a description of a girl to be hired from a brothel. The list of requirements which needed to be met was quite long, but even if it was obvious to her that the prostitute was meant to be a stand-in for the Queen…

 

_ The King is too ill to understand the significance of it.  I need something that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt what Rochefort has done _ .

 

Unfortunately, she did not find anything worthwhile.

 

The Red Guard garrison was out of her reach, but she doubted he would be stupid enough to hide anything compromising there. Rochefort was clever. That was what made him so dangerous.

 

Milady returned to the King’s side. He was awake, and spared her a bored glance. His eyes were unfocused.

 

“How do you feel, Sire?” she asked, modestly lowering her gaze.

 

“Come here, my darling,” he murmured. She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers gently caressing his arm.

 

“I miss him, you know… I am so lonely without him… nobody truly understands me. The Queen is so distant. It really makes no difference to me if she is here or not. But I need him so much… especially now, when I feel so ill.”

 

“The Cardinal’s death was a great tragedy, Sire,” Milady replied swiftly. Personally, she had never spent a second mourning the man, but she understood Louis’ grief. 

 

“You are so clever, my darling. It’s a pity he never met you.”

 

She shivered.

 

“Don’t be afraid, my darling. He would have accepted you as my mistress.” 

 

She hid her face in his arm, and allowed him to feel as if he was reassuring and comforting her. The sensation of his fingers stroking her carefully pinned up hair did feel nice. She tried to remind of herself Athos’ touch...his smell. Then she cursed herself. 

 

_ More than anything, I want to forget him...yet I can’t stop myself from reliving the sweet moments we had together. _

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

The King frowned, and called out in a petulant voice, “I do not wish to be disturbed!”

 

Muffled voices were heard, and then the door was thrown open with fury. 

 

Milady stiffened, and prepared herself for a fight.

 

“Rochefort!” Louis gave him a look of disgust. “I left orders for you to be kept away from me!”

 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you.”

 

“Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.”

 

“I am afraid this cannot wait, Your Majesty.”

 

Milady started to get up, but Louis tightened his hold on her arm, and motioned for her to stay at his side. He was so weak that she could have easily freed herself, but that would not have been appropriate.

 

“Rochefort, I order you to leave!”

 

“It’s about the Queen! I believe she may be in serious danger--or she may be putting the country in serious danger.”

 

Louis sighed heavily, and turned to Milady. 

“Leave us for a moment, my darling.” he murmured. 

 

She got up, and withdrew into the adjoining room. She carefully closed the door behind her, but made sure she was still able to hear every word 

 

“Your Majesty, I am sorry to bring such disturbing news to you, but upon my return to the capital, I received reports that the Queen had been attacked. According to the information I’ve managed to gather, it seems that this attack did indeed occur. But it remains unclear whether the musketeers who were with her died defending her or helped her to escape.”

 

Louis sat up, his voice rising in agitation. “Well, was she actually kidnapped, or did she manage to escape her captors?”

 

“I am afraid that the question you are asking should be framed differently.  In other words, was the Queen really kidnapped?  Or was this event planned and staged by her, so she could return to Spain? After all, if she betrayed France, her brother would be much more likely to allow her to take up residence in Spain with her lover.”

 

“Her lover?!”

 

“Sire, I am sorry to say that the Queen has betrayed you with a musketeer.”

 

“What are you talking about?!”

 

“Your Majesty, let me offer you irrefutable proof.”

 

Milady waited with bated breath. What evidence did Rochefort have?!

 

She heard the sound of scroll of paper being unwound, and then a sudden gasp.

 

“It cannot be true!”

 

“I am so sorry,” Rochefort replied, his words dripping with false sympathy.

 

“I want you to arrest them!” Louis sputtered. “Athos, d’Artagnan--and---all those infamous---what do they call them? Yes, the Inseparables!”  Apparently the King did not even remember their names. “They will meet their end on the wheel!”

 

“Sire, I assure you that their treason would be punished with the utmost severity.” There was clear satisfaction in Rochefort’s oily voice. 

 

Anne closed her eyes. She had failed. Why had the stupid musketeers put her in this position? They were supposed to be the best warriors in France, and now she had to save them!  Why couldn’t they have made it back to Paris before Rochefort?! 

 

The King seemed to have forgotten about her. She waited for several minutes, then silently entered the bedroom. Louis lay on the bed, tears in his eyes.

 

“Why did she do this to me?” he wailed.

 

“Who, Sire?”

 

“Why has my wife betrayed me?”

 

“I really don’t think she would do such a thing, Your Majesty.” She took him in her arms, and he leaned against her, his body trembling.

 

“You are such a kind, naive creature,” he whispered, his eyes full of despair. 

 

“I urge you not to believe the worst possible version of events,” she said gently.”There may yet be another explanation. It hurts me to see you so worried and sad.”

 

He showed no reaction to her words, despite the fact that she had basically just told him that she had overheard the entire conversation.  Perhaps he did not want to acknowledge it... or maybe he simply didn’t care at this point. 

 

“He told me that the musketeers have betrayed me….that they have been plotting against me with the Queen.” Louis unburdened himself as Milady stroked his hair, trying to soothe his agitation.

 

“Sire, the Comte de Rochefort must be devastated by his mother’s death. She must have died before he reached her home, and that is why he is back so soon.  More than likely, his mother never got a chance to see him after he escaped from the Spanish prison. I am sure that the guilt is tearing him apart, and he is not thinking rationally.”

 

The King looked at her for the first time. He wanted so badly to believe her. She could read it in his eyes, which were still glistening with tears.

 

“I so hope you are right… I told him where the musketeers were. Then he’ll bring them here, and everything will be right.”

 

_ No he won’t. He’ll kill them. He’ll kill Treville, and else anyone he finds there.  _

 

_ “ _ So you are going to give them a chance to tell their side of the story, Sire?” she asked, feeling a bit relieved. 

 

He sat up straighter. “Yes, I will. After all, I chose these men personally. I could not have made a mistake!”

 

“Certainly not, Sire. You always make excellent choices,” she purred.

 

Milady gently kissed Louis, her tongue caressing his lips. She needed to tire him out, and then leave him satisfied and sleepy.  And she needed to do it quickly. 

 

After a short time, she succeeded, and left the King sprawled on the bed, snoring softly. 

 

She got up, and felt a bit lightheaded.

 

_ What the hell? What’s wrong with me?  _

There was no time to waste thinking about it. She waited a moment for her head to clear, then slipped out of the King’s chamber, and returned to her own rooms. She changed into men’s clothes, which would be much more suitable for riding, then left the main part of the palace. 

 

_ Should I warn the musketeers in the garrison? Probably not. If they don’t know my plan, they cannot possibly betray me. _

 

She needed to warn Treville. The man was more than a match for Rochefort. 

 

She sneaked out of the building, then froze. The Red Guard lieutenants were standing at attention in front of Rochefort. 

 

“These four musketeers have committed high treason. They have threatened the Queen. They deserve no mercy, but if they are brought back alive, they need to be presentable enough to stand in front of the King and receive his judgment.”

 

His men acknowledged his orders with cruel smiles. Then they saluted him, and headed for their section of the stables. 

 

Milady followed them, then split off to enter another part of the stables. One of Rochefort’s horses was saddled and ready. She quickly approached the animal, soothing him with a few soft words. Then she slipped a small bottle out of her skirts, and put a few drops of liquid in the waterskin that hung from his saddle. She could not poison him right now, but she could slow him down. Finishing, she moved into the shadows, then went into another part of stables. 

 

She readied her horse by herself, not wanting to attract any attention. Mounting up, she maneuvered cautiously towards the gate. The guard recognized her, and opened the gate with a small bow. She walked the horse until she was well out of earshot, then urged him into a gallop. She needed to ride faster than the Red Guards in order to get to Treville first.

 

_ Why haven’t the stupid musketeers already returned with the Queen?! Did they manage to rescue her?  Or did they perish trying? Perhaps they are still tracking  their enemies. _

 

Rochefort was back. Did that mean he had met with success or defeat? There were too many questions, and too little time. 

 

_ Why am I doing this?  _

_ I should be on my way out of France. _

 

Then a thought occured in her mind.

 

_ No!  I’m not risking my life for Athos. He doesn't deserve it!  _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews are so precious for me! Thank you for all of them!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's POV

Anne

 

Although her bruised body ached with fatigue, she could not sleep. She could still taste the bitter draught that Constance had given her, and she felt ill. 

 

To her surprise, she did not feel anything else. There was no sadness or anger left. Only emptiness. 

 

She lay on the bed, her eyes open. Constance had insisted that she should rest, but she could not sleep. Some sort of nervous energy was preventing her from sleeping, and she knew she needed to act. Still, she had no idea what she should do. 

 

Constance entered the room.

“Anne?” she whispered. 

 

The Queen struggled against the temptation to remain silent. The redhead’s voice was low, suggesting that she did not want to wake the queen if she was asleep. 

 

“Yes?” she answered, and slowly sat up.

 

“What are you doing?” Constance asked, a confused expression on her face.

 

“I am not going to sleep while Rochefort is plotting against me,” she said firmly. “Do you think I can talk to Treville now?”

 

Anne did not want the man to overexert himself, but she felt that she could not wait any longer. 

 

“I believe he is awake,” Constance replied. 

 

“Have they returned?” Anne asked quietly, fear coloring her voice. 

 

_ I need to know that Aramis is safe….although I doubt I could bear his presence. Rochefort has finally won. He has taken my love from me. _

 

“No…” Constance tried to sound brave, but even in the dim light, the anguish in her eyes betrayed her. 

 

Anne shivered. “They’ll come back. They are the best and most loyal men in France.”

 

_ Aramis… I need to talk to you. I’ll escape the moment I see you… _

 

Anne stood up and smoothed Constance’s dress. It felt odd to wear a garment that was so modest and simple.

 

“Do you have a spare dagger?” She asked. “I’d feel better if I had one.”

 

_ Because then I will be secure in the knowledge I have the ability to prevent my capture by killing myself.  _

 

“I do,” Constance answered softly. “I’ll strap it on for you.” Anne tried not to stiffen when she felt her friend’s touch on her leg. 

 

_ It’s Constance. She won’t hurt me.  _

But everything in her screamed to run away.

 

“I don’t think it will be possible for me to just act normally. I won’t be able to pretend that nothing happened,” she whispered, feeling fear starting to overwhelm her.

 

“Louis is not the most perceptive of men.,. and the others will say nothing,”  Constance replied softly.

 

“I should be honest with my husband…”

_Although_ _after I slept with Aramis, such a thought never occurred to me… how strange._

 

“Whatever you decide, I’ll stay with you,” said Constance simply. 

 

_ I don’t deserve your friendship. _

 

When her friend withdrew, Anne trembled. 

 

They went to see Treville. Constance knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by Christian, who stood ready to defend his Captain. He bowed deeply. 

 

_ I do not deserve your respect. I was taken like a drunk whore by a man whom I trusted.  _

 

She entered, and saw that Treville was struggling to get out of bed. She gestured for him to stay put. 

 

“Captain, I think I should go to Paris as soon as possible. We cannot afford to give Rochefort time to present his lies to the King.”

 

“We’ll set off at dawn,” he replied.

 

“Are you sure you will be able to ride?” Anne asked worriedly. Even wrapped up in her own nervous energy, Anne could not ignore Treville’s pallor.

 

“I am needed in Paris,” he replied slowly. “God did not spare my life in order for me to lie in bed. I’ll be ready at dawn, Your Majesty. However, we must take into consideration that we may arrive after Rochefort. What do you plan to do?”

 

She gulped. She could not imagine seeing him again. The mere thought made her feel lightheaded, and she swayed. 

 

She was vaguely aware that Constance had steered her over to an armchair. Her fingernails dug into her friend’s hand, and she could not fight the tremors which took hold of her body. 

 

All she wanted to do was to curl up and forget about the world. 

 

_ Not to exist… _

_ No. He’ll kill my son. I cannot surrender. Not when his life is in danger.  _

 

“Captain…” she said, her voice trembling. She was grateful that the officer did not suggest that they continue the conversation at some other time.

 

“I have decided to tell my husband the truth. I’ll tell him that I was kidnapped by the True Musketeers. If he asks about the time that I spent as their captive, I will tell him that I was unconscious most of the time. Do you think I should mention Rochefort’s involvement?”

 

“The King probably wouldn’t believe you if you did. You were drugged. We can pretend that you have no idea that Rochefort was involved. If we beat him back to Paris, that may give us time to find some evidence against him. However, if he is already back, you will be in great danger. If I am able to meet with the King alone to tell him of our suspicions, that may be a better time discuss Rochefort.” 

 

“Do you think Athos and the others searched the camp?”

 

“Even if they did, it is hardly likely that they found anything of importance. But there must some place where Rochefort meets with his men. A place where he will not be recognized….”

 

Constance spoke up. “Perhaps a craftsman’s shop--a seamstress...or a gunsmith or an armorer. A person who has many customers coming and going all day long.  If he takes care to hide his identity, he would be very difficult to recognize.”

 

Treville inclined his head towards Constance. “You’re a true treasure, Madame!” He sighed.  “At least in Paris we can conduct an investigation. There is nothing we can do here.”

 

“Captain, do you think that Athos and his men will return?” Anne needed to know what Treville thought.

 

“Even if Athos and d’Artagnan are overwhelmed by grief, Morineau will bring them back. My guess is that they are tracking down Aramis and Porthos...or figuring out how to free them. They’ll come back.”

 

_ Probably with Aramis’ body.  _

_ I cannot lose him...not when I need him so much.  _

_ But there is nothing he can do for me.  _

_ Will he still love me when he realizes that I am tainted?  _

 

_ The Aramis you knew died. _

Athos’ words still rang in her ears. 

 

_ Am I dead?  _

_ Should I be dead?  _

_ Am I truly a whore, as I am able to carry on after all that has happened?  _

 

Anne withdrew in order to give Captain the opportunity to rest. 

She sat on the bed, shivering. She felt cold and numb. 

 

_ What should I feel?  _

 

_ The Queen was surprised when she woke up. She had been so sure she would not be able to sleep.  _

 

_ A familiar shadow was standing near the door.  _

 

_ “Aramis?” she breathed, not certain if she wanted to lean into his arms or to run away.  _

_ “Anne.”  He gave her a tired smile. His eyes were so empty. _

 

_ “I am so sorry…” She was trembling. She needed his forgiveness... she needed his understanding.  _

 

_ “I thought I was someone special--your only lover. You’ve disappointed me, Ana.” _

 

_ “Aramis, listen to me! I never wanted to…” she could not say the words, and choked “--with Rochefort. You have to believe me! I never consented!” She was crying.  _

 

_ Aramis’ gaze was hard and bitter.  _

 

_ He came nearer to her. She took a step back, suddenly afraid.  _

 

_ Aramis caught her arm, his other hand cupping her face. He crushed his mouth to hers in a hard, angry kiss.  _

 

_ She wanted to escape. _

_ She wanted to slap him. _

_ She wanted to melt into his kiss.  _

 

_ She froze when his tongue found its way into her mouth. _

_ No, no…. Aramis wouldn’t force himself on me.  _

 

_ But when she opened her eyes, she saw Rochefort’s face.  _

 

Her scream woke her up. Constance was at her side. 

 

Anne curled up into a ball, tears and sweat mixing on her face. Then she vomited.

 

Constance gently wiped her face with a cold rag. The Queen waited for the nausea to abate, then slowly got up. 

 

“We are leaving in an hour,” Constance told her. 

Anne nodded absentmindedly.

 

_ What if my nausea is due to pregnancy, not a nightmare?!  _

 

She took the bottle that Constance had given her, and desperately drank from it. 

 

_ I cannot be pregnant by this traitor! I cannot!  _

 

She had no idea how she had managed to dress and get to the stables. Constance was at her side. Anne decided that she would ride alone, and the musketeers did not protest. 

 

She felt a stab of guilt when she saw how pale Treville was. He was clearly hurting when they rode out.

 

Anne tried to focus on her mount, but she had been given a docile, well trained mare. Riding was not challenging enough to keep her attention for long. 

 

The musketeers were mostly silent. Occasionally the scouts rode back to the main  group, and gave a quick report. 

 

She was surprised when they stopped for a respite. Constance helped her to dismount. The aching of her body was merciless, and she nearly fainted when her feet touched the ground.  

 

Constance led her to a cot, and gave her something hot to drink. Without thinking, she put the hot goblet to her cramping stomach. The heat helped to ease her pain a bit. 

 

One look at her friend told Constance all she needed to know. “You took more of the medicine.” 

“I fear…”

“I know…” Constance squeezed her hand. 

 

Anne leaned into her touch for just a moment, then pulled away. Constance remained silent.

 

They set off once again. She lost count of the stops, which were either too short or too long. She dreamt of a long rest, but at the same time, she could not bear to lose any more time. She could not find any hope in her heart, and felt as every second they lost was leading to her end. 

 

Suddenly, they stopped in the middle of the road. The scouts had returned with another rider, and the stranger was talking to Treville. The Captain motioned for Constance to approach, and Anne went with her.

 

Treville’s face was grave. “Rochefort has reached Paris.”

“What do we do now?” Constance asked.

The stranger spoke. “I have a plan.”  She lifted the hood on her cloak, and Anne found herself looking Milady’s green eyes. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

_Am I dying?_

 

The fire in his chest demanded air to soothe it. But he could not take in a breath.

 

_Or perhaps I’m not breathing in enough air… or it’s not air…_

 

He was barely holding on to consciousness. At this point, he could only feel pain and fear, and was no longer aware of the blessings which could serve to ground him.

 

He willed himself to concentrate on his breathing, forcing it to slow down.

 

Finally, his surroundings became more familiar. He gradually became aware that he was lying in someone’s arms, embraced by the smell of wine...a smell strong enough to completely obliterate the scent of powder or blood.

 

_Athos then. Not Porthos._

_Porthos?!!_

_He is wounded! I need to check on him!_

 

Aramis slowly lifted his head, careful not to provoke a bout of nausea. He already felt lightheaded.

 

_Lack of air. Something is really wrong with my lungs…_

_What has happened?!_

 

Suddenly his memories returned to him with a vengeance. A confusing mix of images assaulted his exhausted brain. He gasped, his hands desperately fisting into something.

 

“Breathe, Aramis. You’ll be fine.”  There was despair in Athos’ voice. He clearly did not believe his words.

 

He lifted himself up a bit.

“Porthos?” he whispered.

 

“Asleep. But we have to leave soon.” Athos gently shifted Aramis, planning to lay him down. The marksman, however, had a different plan. He preferred to remain seated, as it would be much easier to get up. Athos opted to leave him in a half-sitting position, giving him some support for his back.

 

_I am so tired. I could sleep all day--and probably the next as well._

 

He blinked, his eyes focusing on the activity around him. The sky was still dark. He wrapped himself up in Athos’ cloak, and saw that some of the musketeers had started to prepare breakfast, while others were breaking camp. His gaze finally halted on a sleeping Porthos. He needed to check on him.

 

He braced himself, and slowly started to get up. D’Artagnan suddenly appeared at his side. Without a word, the Gascon helped him to his feet, steadying him when he  became dizzy.

 

Aramis winced when he saw the colorful bruises on the boy’s neck. From the look of them, he must have been nearly strangled.

 

Catching his eye, D’Artagnan merely shrugged. The young man led him to Porthos, then helped him lower himself to the ground.

 

Aramis did not let go of the Gascon.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan croaked.

 

“Any trouble breathing?”

The boy shook his head.

 

“Swallowing?”

 

This time the boy voiced his answer. “Hurts like hell.”

 

“Well, it’s unpleasant now, but you’ll be fine,” the medic murmured reassuringly.

 

“I’m not worried about myself,” d’Artagnan replied, locking eyes with his friend.

“What about you?”

 

“I’ll live,” Aramis replied automatically.

The boy’s fingers squeezed his hand.

“Will you?” d’Artagnan asked seriously.

 

Those hazel eyes were full of hope and fear. Aramis paused for a moment to consider his answer. He felt awful. His head was pounding, and he still had a mild fever. His ribs ached. When he drank, it felt as if he was swallowing liquid metal. Talking only made the pain worse. However, all of these things were minor inconveniences...well, perhaps major inconveniences. What was truly worrying was the shortness of breath. The constant feeling of having too little air in his lungs was terrifying. His experience with treating smoke victims, which unfortunately was significant, told him that he was not yet out of the woods.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he promised.

 

D’Artagnan quickly lowered his eyes, trying to hide the tears that stung his eyes.

 

“Hey, I have no plans for a date with Death any time soon,” the medic said lightly.

 

D’’Artagnan gave him a weak smile. “You had better not.”

 

Aramis nodded, and turned his attention to Porthos. He swore under his breath, realizing that he could not reliably assess Porthos’ temperature.

 

“D’Art?” He stopped the Gascon, who had been about to leave in order to attend to his other duties. “Does he have a fever?”

 

The boy ungloved his hand, and checked Porthos.  He then turned to Aramis, taking him by surprise when he extended his hand to gently touch the medic’s forehead.

 

“You both have a fever, but not a very high one.” D’Artagnan spoke loud enough for Athos to hear.

 

Aramis sighed, and touched Porthos’ cheek.

 

“I need to take a look at your wound,” he murmured, and started to unwrap the blanket that was wrapped around his friend. The big man protested, and snatched the blanket back.

 

“No…”

 

Aramis ground his teeth in frustration. “Look, we can’t afford to waste any time! We need to ride out soon.” Suddenly, he felt the urge to cough building in his chest. He tried to fight it, but lost.

 

The cough seemed to tear his ribs apart. He trembled as he tried to catch his breath. Dark spots were dancing before his eyes. Finally, he managed to breathe through the pain.

 

“Mis… you’ll be fine Mis…”. A voice was whispering in Aramis’ ear, repeating the same desperate words over and over. The marksman realized that he was being held by a pair of strong arms.

 

He lifted his head to look into Porthos’ face.

“How do you feel?”

 

“Well, I don’t particularly enjoy waking up to the sound of you suffocating.”

 

“Sorry. Besides that?”

 

“Tired,” the big man murmured.

 

“And the wound?”

 

The dark skinned musketeer groaned.  “It hurts like hell.”

 

“I’ll check it.”

 

“Go ahead. I know how much you enjoy undressing me, Mis.”  There was a undertone of strain in Porthos’ voice-- a fear of how Aramis would react to their usual banter.

 

The medic knew he should reply in his usual lighthearted manner, but he could not bring himself to do it. Instead, he started to unwrap the bandage.

 

As he gently palpated the area around the wound, Porthos hissed. Aramis was relieved to see that the wound did not seemed infected. The skin around it was a bit warm and red, but that was not unexpected after the brutality that had been inflicted on it. The medic put some calendula oil on the wound, then redressed it. He was just finishing when Athos and Morineau came up to them.

 

“I’m leaving to warn Treville about Rochefort,” Morineau said. “Is there anything else you want me to tell him?”

 

“No,” Aramis replied. Morineau nodded, then went to his horse.

 

“I decided to send him on ahead. He can travel faster than we can,” Athos said. “Aramis, you’ll ride with me, and Porthos will ride with d’Artagnan.” He handed them some bread and cheese. “I suggest the two of you have a bite to eat, then rest until it is time for us to mount up.”

 

Aramis nodded, and was relieved to see Porthos attack his rations with gusto. The marksman eyed his meal with distrust. He was not especially hungry, and was not eager to experience another bout of nausea.

 

“Eat!” Athos ordered.

 

The medic gingerly swallowed a bit of bread, and realized that his sore throat was definitely not eager to handle solid food. It was torture to eat, but he knew he needed sustenance. He could not afford to become any weaker, as that would only delay their return to Paris. So, he decided to force himself to eat. He sighed with relief when he finally finished. However, his throat continued to throb painfully, taking its revenge on him for all the abuse it had suffered.

 

They finally set off. Athos positioned Aramis so that the marksman could comfortably lean into him.

 

“Sleep if you can,” Athos murmured. His voice was unusually soft.

 

_He’s still worried about me._

 

Aramis allowed himself to close his eyes.

 

_Just for a moment._

 

Each time his cough tormented him, he touched the edge of wakefulness--and each time, he felt Athos’ grip tighten on him. The support of his friend helped him fight against the pain that was searing his chest. The pain tormented him, causing him to gasp for air while blackness silently tempted him with the promise of a respite from the agony.

 

When the pain became bearable once again, he slept.

 

“Aramis?” Athos gently shook him.  “Come on, wake up. We need to get down. Can you sit on your own for a moment?”

 

His throat felt too dry and sore to speak, so he merely nodded.

 

Athos jumped off the horse, and waited for Aramis to join him. When the marksman slid off the horse, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. Athos caught his arm, steadying him until it passed.

 

“Why…?”, Aramis croaked.

 

“We’ll change horses eventually, but they need a bit of a rest right now. How do you feel?”

 

“I’m…”

 

“The truth,” Athos said, his voice firm.

 

“Sore and tired.”

 

Athos nodded, but he did not seem entirely satisfied with the reply. Something seemed to be on his mind.

 

After a few moments, the swordsman turned to him, his voice low.

“Is riding making you worse?”

 

It was obvious that the lieutenant did not want the others to overhear their conversation. Aramis also suspected that Athos was afraid to hear his answer. There was no way they could stop, and leaving the wounded in the middle of nowhere was not an option.

 

The medic gave him a quick smile.

“No. It’s only a bit unpleasant.”

 

A moment later, the scent of smoke floated across the clearing to them, and he stiffened.

 

“Aramis?” Athos’ voice was strained.

 

The marksman, his hand on his pistol, looked around him, and realized that the smell came from the fire that d’Artagnan had started. Despite this reassuring sight, his muscles tensed, and his heart was already pounding.

 

_I am pathetic!_

 

“I want you to drink some hot tea,” Athos said softly, handing him a mug.

 

Aramis nodded gratefully. The warm tea soothed his throat.

 

Porthos sat on the ground, his back supported by an immense oak. As Athos led the medic towards him, the big man watched them with concern.

 

Aramis gingerly sat down next to his friend.

 

He checked on the bandages, ignoring Porthos’ questions about his own well being. To be honest, he prefered not to talk, afraid of provoking another bout of coughing.

 

Porthos had been avoiding d’Artagnan, and guilt was clear in the big man’s eyes when the Gascon approached them with some food and hot tea.

 

Aramis sighed. He knew exactly what had caused the bruises on their youngest’s neck. It had happened to him on more than one occasion when he had startled Porthos. Each time had ended painfully for the marksman.

 

The boy felt Porthos’ eyes on him, and he smiled briefly.

 

“I’ll be fine-although I won't be singing for a day or two.” He spoke loud enough for Porthos to hear his words.

 

The big man muttered something that sounded like an apology, and d’Artagnan patted his arm.

The break was too short to give them the rest that they needed, but no one protested when they set off again. They needed to get to Treville as soon as possible--or sooner.

 

They did not stop for the night, but only halted once or twice to rest the horses

 

The medic in Aramis was worried, as he knew they would end up utterly exhausted. However, at the same time, he was grateful for their strenuous pace. He tried to convince Athos that he could ride alone, but a violent paroxysm of coughing proved him wrong.

 

After another short rest, he felt the swordsman’s gaze on him while he was busy changing Porthos’ bandages. Once he had tied the last knot, he gave his leader a quizzical look.

 

“How is he?” Athos asked. His voice was strained with fatigue.

 

“As well as can be expected,” the medic replied, glancing at Porthos. He was worried by his friend’s silence. The big man gave him a quick smile, but worry lingered in his eyes.

 

“I’m fine, Porthos.”

 

“Try again, Mis,” the big man growled, patting his arm.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

_At least, I hope I will, but I cannot be sure..._

 

This time he was rewarded with one of Porthos’ genuine smiles--and he hated himself for lying.

 

They rode off.

 

Aramis was not sure what brought him to full awareness. Was it a sound? Or the fact that Athos stiffened against him?

 

He looked around, trying to identify any danger that might be lurking in the darkness. They had opted to travel without torches, anxious to avoid providing an easy target for their enemies.

 

The rushing water of a river could be heard as they approached its banks. Aramis could not shake off the uneasy feeling that darkened his thoughts.

 

The path went along the far bank, which was muddy and slippery.

 

“A trap?” Athos asked, sensing his friend’s disquiet.’

 

Aramis nodded. It was then that he realized that he had already readied his pistol. It had been an instinctive action.

 

They were rode along in silence, alert for any sign of an enemy.

 

_Something is wrong. Terribly wrong._

 

Suddenly he saw it--the merest trace of a spark, instantly disappearing in the thick bushes. A faint smell reached him, and suddenly, he knew.

 

“Get down!” he yelled, diving from the horse. Athos reflexively tried to grab him. For a moment, they hung in the air. Then there was an explosion, and the world turned orange. The blast threw Aramis up in the air, and he landed hard in the bushes. He heard the horses’ terrified neighs, followed by d’Artagnan’s scream of pain.

 

Dark spots tried to steal his vision. His abused ribs protested violently when he threw himself to the side, just avoiding the sword thrust that had been aimed at him.

He found himself drawn into a fight, just when he should be searching for his comrades. “Athos!” he cried.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the swordsman stagger to his feet. He also made out the shape of a riderless horse. Was it one of their horses?

 

There was no time to think. He thrust his blade into his opponent’s chest, then used his main gauche to stop a blade heading for his neck. He slashed wildly with his rapier, parrying another hit. Athos had joined the fray, and the medic was fighting back to back with him now. Aramis knew he could not falter--to do so would leave Athos unprotected.

 

“Take them alive! We’ll have some fun!” The mocking shout rang through the air, and the marksman’s heart froze.

 

He lunged forward in another attack, and his blade tasted blood. He plunged his main gauche into someone’s side, then twisted it to free the blade. He heard Athos’ gasp of pain, and the swordsman stumbled behind him.

 

The marksman could not avoid the next blade, as to dodge it would send his enemy’s sword into Athos’ back. He tried to stop it, but the blade slipped on his rapier, and slashed his arm. He barely held back a scream.

 

Suddenly, Aramis was driven to his knees. He was not sure what had hit him, but he could feel blood running down his face. He clumsily parried another blade, but something penetrated through his defense. A searing pain radiated through his head.

 

His weapon was thrown from his hand. He tried to escape the hands that were restraining him, but the pain from a sudden kick to the ribs paralyzed him.

Something squeezed his throat, and he could not breathe. Pain erupted in his lungs, which were now starving for air.

 

Darkness started to feast on his awareness...

 

He lost.

He was a captive.

He would be tortured.

 

_God… please…_

_I cannot_

_Not again_

_Let them kill me_

_Let me die now_

_God please…._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my awesome Beta - Riversidewren


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's POV

D’Artagnan 

If he had been the only one on the horse, he would have remained in the saddle. However, when the blast hit, Vent stumbled, and Porthos started to fall. The Gascon made a desperate attempt to catch him, but failed. They both ended up tumbling down a steep slope towards the river. 

 

D’Artagnan barely managed to take in a breath before they hit the water. The river, swollen from recent showers and melting snow in the mountains, was a challenge even for a good swimmer. The young musketeer was an experienced swimmer, but he was handicapped by the dead weight of the man that he held in his arms. The only thing the boy could do was to struggle to keep their heads above the water as the current carried them away. 

 

For a moment he had heard the clash of swords and a few shots. That meant that his brothers had survived the explosion. 

 

He felt like a deserter, and desperately tried to swim to the shore. After several minutes, however, he became numb from the cold, and exhaustion took hold of him.

 

He had to focus on the task he had in his hand - saving Porthos. Aramis and Athos were beyond his reach now.

 

Porthos’ head lay on his arm in a position that allowed him to breathe. D’Artagnan held him securely as the river took them downstream. 

 

A few minutes later, Porthos stirred in his arms. He was disoriented. Ignoring all of d’Artagnan’s warnings and pleas, he struggled to free himself. The big man finally managed to hit the Gascon hard. Stunned, the boy sank under the surface.  

 

With a strange sort of detachment, he found himself staring at the green river weeds, as well as the pale stones that were partially hidden by them. The silver surface above his head was adorned with little bubbles.

 

Suddenly something seized his collar, and he felt his body shooting upwards. An instant later, he broke the surface of the water. 

 

“Breathe! D’Artagnan, breathe!”  He heard the desperate plea, and found it puzzling. His blurred vision focused as he stared at his terrified friend. He could not understand why Porthos was so upset.

 

_ Something is wrong. Why am I not panicking?  _

 

Porthos dragged him roughly through the water, and the Gascon soon felt the ground under his feet. He managed to stand, and somehow followed Porthos, who seemed to be determined to stick to the direction he had chosen.

 

They finally reached the muddy shore, which was dotted with dark brown grass. For some time, they just lay there, gasping for air. After ten minutes or so, d’Artagnan finally coerced his frozen aching body to move. He struggled to his knees, and looked at the area around them. 

 

They were now on the other side of the river, without any supplies. Their leathers were completely soaked, and it was certain that their powder was ruined. Luckily, the Gascon still had his rapier and dagger. He had not had time to draw them before they had been ambushed.

 

“Aramis? Athos?” Porthos croaked, slowly sitting up. He winced, and his hand clutched his wounded side. 

 

D’Artagnan pried his hand off the area, and frowned as he inspected it. The boy bit his lip in frustration. “You’ve ripped your stitches.” 

 

Then he recalled Aramis’ struggle to tend to Porthos’ wounds. He remembered how the color had drained from the medic’s face as he had stubbornly continued to work. 

 

“I have no supplies... “ d’Artagnan whispered, suddenly filled with guilt.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Porthos growled. “Our first priority is to find Aramis and Athos.” 

 

_ Hopefully we will find them alive. Who knows what has happened to them… _

 

“We need to cross the river,” d’Artagnan said. He had almost commented on his companion’s attitude, but had thought better of it. There was no way he would be able to dissuade Porthos from immediately setting out to find their friends.

 

The big man nodded, but eyed with distrust the water that separated them from their brothers.

 

“Since we managed to reach the shore here, perhaps the current is not so strong in this area,” the Gascon said hopefully. However, he did not really believe his words. The river here was too narrow to be slow. He suspected that the local children chose this spot to play in during the summer months. The fast current would make it an exciting place to swim.

 

_ To swim… and to drown.  _

 

D’Artagnan knew that few children really knew how to swim. This was really not surprising, as few adults knew how to swim either. His father had been an exception - not only had he been an excellent swimmer, but he made it a point to teach all of his own children, as well as quite a few of their cousins and friends.

 

As they got up, d’Artagnan realized with fury that his vision had started to blur with tears when he thought about his father. No amount of time seemed to be able to change that.

 

Porthos was stumbling, but he finally reached the edge of the river, and started to slowly walk along it.  He was moving at a snail’s pace, and kept his hand clasped firmly over his injured side.

 

_ I really should do something about his wound, but I don’t even have a dry cloth to use as a bandage. I hope he hasn’t torn open all his stitches. If we are lucky, the bleeding will eventually taper off and stop...before he falls unconscious...or dies.  _

 

The walked on in silence, too exhausted to talk. D’Artagnan was in pain, but he doubted that any of his injuries were serious. However, if he did not get enough rest, they could be debilitating in the long run. 

 

Finally, the river spread out into a vast marshland. Crossing it was feasible, but it would not be pleasant. D’Artagnan saw the silhouette of a horse on the other side, and froze. Was someone pursuing them?

 

But the horse had no rider. 

 

“Nuit?” the boy whispered.

 

“Even if it is, she can’t possibly hear you,” Porthos murmured.

 

“I don’t want to call out to her. Our enemies may be close by…plus, I don’t want her getting into the marsh.”

 

“What? Better we drown than her?!” Porthos asked incredulously.

 

“Well, she is my mare,” d’Artagnan joked. He had attempted to lighten the mood, but he knew that he failed even before he saw Porthos’ glare.

 

The ground under their feet was soft and slippery, and the level of the murky water rose with each step they took. Finally, d’Artagnan decided to swim instead of walking. Fortunately his leather protected him from the branches of the fallen tree which he encountered. Porthos followed him. He was doing his best to hide his pain, but did not succeed.  Luckily, the current was minimal. Still, the water was freezing, and d’Artagnan struggled to remain focused. His thoughts drifted to Constance, and the time they had spent together at the estate. Even now, he was sure he could smell the scent of her hair.

 

_ Focus! _

 

Even the knowledge that his brothers were in danger failed to give him any kind of nervous energy. As he approached the shore, the grass became too thick to swim through. He was shocked when he cautiously tried to touch the ground, and realized that water was only as deep as his knees. 

 

After a few wobbly steps, he was out of the water. His soaked clothes stuck to him, and he was numb with cold. He glanced at Porthos, who was unsteadily splashing through the shallow water, then approached Nuit. The mare nuzzled his arm. Spots of dried blood covered her side and flanks, but she did not seem severely injured. However, he noticed that she was favoring her left rear leg. D’Artagnan patted Nuit’s nose, then inspected her leg. A bad gash on her leg definitely needed stitches. He rummaged through his saddle bags, which fortunately were not too wet. Suddenly he realized that he had been so focused on his horse that he had forgotten about his wounded brother.

 

_ Some musketeer I am! I completely forgot about my wounded friend and brother!! _

 

Truly ashamed, he returned to Porthos. The big man gave him a quizzical look.

“I have to take care of your wound,” d’Artagnan said hesitantly, not really sure what he could do for his friend. He definitely lacked Aramis’ knowledge and skill. He took off the soaked bandage, then poured some alcohol on the wound. Porthos growled in pain, biting on his lip in an effort to remain silent.

 

D’Artagnan assessed the wound. It was still bleeding. Some stitches had opened up, but luckily, not all of them had. He gently prodded the swollen, red area.

 

“Just put a bandage on it and be done with it!” Porthos growled. “We need to get going!”

 

“I think it need stitches.”

 

“We have no time for that! Bind it up so we can go. You’ve already had enough fun pouring brandy over my raw flesh.”

 

“No! I do not want to have to explain to Aramis why I let you bleed out!” An exasperated D’Artagnan was nearly at the boiling point.

 

Ignoring Porthos’ angry glare, he redid several of the stitches. Porthos tried to hide his discomfort, but he was obviously suffering. D’Artagnan knew the process had to be very painful for his friend, as he had to push the needle through burned skin. 

 

“Are you satisfied now?” Porthos muttered, clearly annoyed.

 

The Gascon bound the wound, then gave him a curt nod. Then he turned his attention to the wound on Nuit’s leg. There was not much bleeding, but the gash needed to be cleaned and stitched. Porthos’ eyes followed his brother’s every move with impatience. He was itching to set out on their rescue mission.

 

Finally, the Gascon was ready to go. He motioned for Porthos to mount Nuit. The big man managed to haul himself up onto the horse’s back. He clearly was waiting for d’Artagnan to join him. 

 

“She can’t have two riders right now,” d’Artagnan muttered “She really shouldn’t be ridden at all, but we have no choice.”

 

They started their journey back to the place of the ambush. It took them much longer than they had anticipated. D’Artagnan mentally cursed his poor physical condition. Although he was not hurt badly, his body was aching, and fatigue was slowly gaining the upper hand. 

 

They finally reached the place of the explosion. The area was deserted. A few damaged trees and some marks on the sandy shore were the only signs that something had happened there. The sand was soaked with blood, and the hoofprints of multiple horses could be seen. They started to circle the area. D’Artagnan found a place where a cart had been kept.

 

“Do you think… they’ve been taken prisoner?” d’Artagnan whispered. He already knew the answer to his question, and he feared for Aramis. He knew that the medic would never survive being abused a second time. He had often thought that if such a thing were to happen to himself once again, he would likely be damaged beyond repair….and he guessed that the same wounds had mutilated Aramis’ soul. There is only so much humiliation and pain a man can endure before he permanently loses his grip on his sanity. He was quite sure that Aramis was already close to the edge of the abyss.

 

_ If he crosses it, there will be no way back this time. _

_ There will be no more Aramis…  _

 

That would be a wound that their brotherhood could not bear. 

 

“He’s strong,” Porthos muttered, but he did not sound convinced. 

 

_ He was… as was I once. Now we are just a liability…a weak link. _

 

“D’Artagnan, stop it! We’ll find them. Mis will be alright!”

 

When the Gascon merely looked at his brother sadly, Porthos seized d’Artagnan’s leather jacket.

 

“They’ll be alright! We must believe that they’ll be alright!” he hissed desperately. Then he released his brother, and turned away, adding a barely audible, “Please!”

 

D’Artagnan only nodded. It was not difficult to track the path the cart had taken. He knew what he would find next - the tracks merged onto one of the larger roads, which had many carts travelling on it. However, the soil was still wet after the recent rain,  so there was a chance that they would be able to tell where the cart had left the road.

 

D’Artagnan was not surprised when they found a tired, famished Vent. The horse greeted them happily, then immediately nosed the saddlebags in a desperate search for food.

 

“So Vent wasn’t caught,” d’Artagnan mused as he checked the horse. “And since we haven’t found their bodies, I suspect that Orage and Nuage are also alive. Unfortunately the horse had sustained quite a few injuries. None of the damage was too severe, and miraculously, nothing was infected. However, the poor beast was in pain, and was obviously much weaker than usual. 

 

“We’re heading for Paris. Do you think they took Athos and Aramis there?” Porthos asked. 

 

“Since Rochefort and his Red Guard are involved in this, it’s quite possible,” the Gascon replied. “Do you think the Red Guard were our attackers?”

 

“No. It would be unlikely for the Red Guard to venture so far from Paris… I suspect it was the True Musketeers.”

 

“So we need to prove that the True Musketeers captured them on the orders of Rochefort and the Red Guard. That would be a very serious charge.” There was hope in the younger musketeer’s voice.

 

“First we have to find our brothers.” Porthos’ words sounded like a prayer.

 

“We’ll find them,” d’Artagnan murmured.

 

Porthos did not reply, and the Gascon felt that his brother was losing hope with every passing hour. 

 

And many hours had now passed since the trap.

  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

The bitter taste of failure. It was worse than the horrible taste of the gag which had been forced into his mouth. The blindfold had plunged him into darkness. 

 

His hands were bound tightly behind his back. They were already stiff and numb. His head pounded in rhythm with the motion of the cart, jolting with every lurch. There was a burning pain on his back that seemed to rise above the other aches that he felt. He realized with surprise that he was shirtless. Perhaps this was the reason that he felt so cold.

 

They had been captured. He had overheard a few snatches of conversation. It had been enough to learn that they were to be taken to Paris and executed with all the cruelty they deserved. Though he could not be sure if their execution would be approved by the King. It had been emphasized several times that the captives should be recognizable. Athos interpreted in those words permission to commit any atrocity, providing it did not disfigure them.

 

His heart was sick for Aramis. He knew the man was somewhere close by. He could hear laborious breathing, as well as a cough muffled by the gag. 

 

The worst thing was that Athos thought that air deprivation might be a small mercy for Aramis, as a nearly suffocated man would be unlikely to be truly aware of torture. 

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan were said to have drowned in the river, but Athos refused to believe it. 

 

Sometime at the beginning of their brotherhood, Athos and Aramis had discovered that Porthos could not swim. They had decided that this would not do, and had spent every moment they could spare during that spring and summer to teach him. 

 

Porthos had not been keen on the water, but he had understood why his friends had insisted that he learn to swim. Now he was one of the best swimmers in the garrison - strong and tireless, although still reluctant to get in the water unless there was a heatwave.  Athos believed that even taking into consideration Porthos’ wounds and the cold weather, the big man stood a chance--as did d’Artagnan. 

 

Time seemed to stretch into eternity. However, Athos knew he should not look forward to the end of their journey. 

 

After several tries, Athos managed to crawl towards the source of the nearly inaudible whimpers. He wanted to make some sound to warn Aramis of his presence, but a sudden bump caused him to land hard on his friend. Aramis whimpered and stiffened, and Athos murmured reassuringly.

 

_ I hope it sounds reassuring, not like the growl of a furious wolf. It seems that my attempt to offer him some comfort from my body heat has only ended up scaring him.  _

 

Aramis’ moan sounded like an acknowledgement. The shivering medic melted into Athos. The lieutenant could not be sure whether his friend was searching for an anchor or for a source of warmth.

 

Suddenly the cart stopped, and the vague noise of the city reached Athos. He guessed they were in a closed courtyard. Soon he was brutally shoved out of the cart. He tried to resist, but it was futile. A blow to his stomach caused him to double over. When he tried to gasp for air, he choked on the gag. In the darkness of his blindfolded eyes, he was still able to sense that Aramis had been dragged away.

 

_ Would Aramis be able to bear it? What did those scum plan to do with him?! _

_ Keep your hands away from him!  _

 

He wanted to shout, to fight back. To help Aramis.

Or to kill the medic before he was completely destroyed.

But a helpless Athos could do nothing. His captors led him into a darkness full of kicks and punches. 

 

Within moments, he found himself standing up, bound to a pole. 

 

“You’re afraid musketeer, aren’t you? Well, you should be! After all, it’s tragic to see a nobleman meet his end like this. I’m very sorry to have taken your plaything away from you, but I promise you we’ll use him wisely.” The mocking voice sounded familiar.

 

Duval. An ex-Red Guard.

 

A whip slashed through the air and found his bare arm. Before Athos managed to regain his composure, another lash came. He surmised that there were several people attacking him, each with a different type of whip.

_ Each will cut my skin a bit differently. I will gain a real collection of scars. If I do, I suppose should be grateful for them, because it will mean that we were found alive… _

_ So probably there will be no scars. _

 

A vicious hit tore him from his reverie. He hissed, then choked on the gag. Breathing became more and more difficult. He felt the blood trickling down his cut skin, navigating a labyrinth of pain. Suddenly there was a splash, and cold water landed on his back. The water burned, probably due to salt that had been mixed in. He could not manage to hide his pain and surprise. His torment was met with laughter and jeering. 

 

_ I should have counted the lashes…  _

 

Suddenly it was over. He waited for another cut of the whip, but it did not come. He was limp now, and was basically suspended from the pole by his bonds. The position was quite painful. He may have lost consciousness, but he was not sure. He had a vague memory of being taken away from the courtyard, and then being brought inside a building. Other than that, he could remember no more. 

 

He felt ill. Shivers were wracking his body. The cold was not enough to have a numbing effect. Instead, it only served to provoke cramps in his abused, injured muscles. It hurt like hell. But the sound of a falling body made him forget everything. He heard a brief, muffled moan, and he turned his head towards the sound.

 

“So sorry, musketeer, but we’ve damaged your plaything a bit. He may never be the same!” Laughter followed, and Athos wished he could strike the man dead with a look. 

 

He was no longer blindfolded, but he wished he had never seen the view which greeted him when he opened his eyes. He saw a bloody shape in a cage, curled on its side. It was his brother.

 

He cast a glance towards the laughing bandit…

If only his gaze could kill…

 

His helpless anger provoked another burst of laughter from his captors, so he forced a blank expression onto his face while his heart was breaking inside his chest. 

 

After that, the spectators quickly grew bored, and left.

 

He waited for the steps to become distant. He wanted to call out his brother’s name, but the gag still was in his mouth. He crawled towards the wall of his cage, but even if his hands had not been bound, Aramis was still out of his reach.

 

Athos murmured a few words, hoping to catch his friend’s attention, but the marksman showed no reaction. He was alive, but was shivering, and gasping desperately for air. His skin was covered with blood, making it difficult to assess him for injuries. There was a cloth loosely bound around his arm. Perhaps it had been meant to stem blood loss, but Athos doubted it had worked. 

 

Aramis curled up as he succumbed to a series of dry heaves. They seemed to torment the marksman for an eternity. All Athos could do was watch his friend’s agony. He could not even offer him any comfort by voice or touch. 

 

Finally, Aramis, completely exhausted, collapsed in a heap. After the shivers seemed to subside a bit, his eyes met Athos’. The swordsman froze as he stared into their emptiness. There was no Aramis in those brown orbs. They were so distant -- so indifferent. 

 

He knew this look. When fear and pain became too much for the mind to bear...

 

_ You should have ridden with d’Artagnan. Then you would have stood a chance. _

_ And now? Wounded and alone. Imprisoned. Defenseless. And so fragile… I am so helpless. I cannot even ground you…  _

_ What they have done to you?! They’ll pay for it. I swear it.  _

_ Aramis! Please! Don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me! _

_ What will I say to Porthos?!!! _

 

The door opened. They were in a basement. Athos berated himself for not having paid enough attention to their surroundings. Aramis was incapacitated at this point, so any chance of escape depended on Athos.

 

_ Escape? He cannot walk. You’ll have to leave him...to accept that he’s beyond rescue at this point. _

 

Three men came in. One of them was Duval. He had been a Red Guard until Athos and his brothers had proved that he was also a murderer. It was disconcerting to see him free...and to be at his mercy. 

 

Athos was sure that the man remembered who had ended his career as a Red Guard. Even Richelieu had not been able to ignore the proof that had been brought before the King. The man should have died on the gallows… 

 

The bandit gestured for his companions to drag Aramis out of his cage. The marksman did not resist. He was probably unconscious. Duval turned the musketeer over with a kick, then squatted down next to him and lightly touched his face. There was an intimacy in this gesture that broke Athos’ composure. He threw himself towards the entrance of his cage, his fury taking away his ability to think, to plan.

 

They must have opened the cage, as he was finally able to reach their captors. However, with his hands still bound, there was not much he could do. He tackled one of them to the ground. He kicked, and managed to hit someone else’s leg. In response, a flurry of punches and kicks landed on him. They did not grapple with him, taking obvious pleasure in watching an enraged musketeer struggle without any hope of winning. 

 

One part of Athos’ mind screamed at him for his mindless fury, but another part congratulated him for drawing their captors’ attention to himself instead of Aramis. 

 

He had lost. He lay crumpled on the floor, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion.

 

_ If you had any chance of escape, you just lost it by rendering yourself useless. You’ve failed Aramis by letting your heart rule your head.  _

 

Suddenly a hot pain shot through his back, followed by the scent of burning flesh. He screamed.

 

_ The gag. It’s gone… _

 

Laughter erupted around him once again.

He tried to deny them the satisfaction of seeing him in agony. He braced for the pain, for the sickening smell. But he only lasted a few seconds.

 

Then he could not remain quiet. 

 

_ They’re cauterizing the wound on your back… _

 

And he remembered what Aramis had said about what happens when an incipient infection is sealed inside the body by the cauterization of a wound. 

 

_ It is one of the cruelest death sentences possible. _

 

The pain started to send him into oblivion.The sound of his scream was deafening to his own ears. 

 

And somewhere in the fire of his agony, he felt fingers squeezing his wrist--not to hurt him, but to give him comfort. 

 

_ Aramis?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you for betaing.
> 
> I feel I should find a nice place to hide. Again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

He almost believed that pain and humiliation had not touched him, as this hurting shell was not his body. He had almost managed to convince himself that the wounds and fever had made him delusional, and that everything that seemed to have been done to him was just the memories of past torture.

 

He had worked so hard to believe it. To shelter himself with his mind.

 

And it had worked. If asked, he could not say if he was reliving his memories or surviving actual torment. He chose not to know for sure. Instead, he escaped by building a wall around himself. 

 

However, when it came, the scream cut through his protective layer like a sharp knife. Even though his own pain remained distant, his brother’s desperate cries did not. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air.

 

Without thinking, he extended his hand to touch Athos’. He hoped that his gesture had not been noticed by their captors. He really did not want to open his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids was his last line of defense. But he had to know what those monsters were doing to Athos. His brother’s pulse was hammering under his fingers, which now encircled the lieutenant’s wrist. The medic could feel that his friend was trembling. 

 

Aramis slowly opened his eyes, and ignored the taunting comments of their captors.

 

“Look who’s joined us!” one man jeered. His comrades guffawed in response.

 

The musketeer slowly lifted himself up onto his elbow. He winced when he saw an ugly, bloody burn on Athos’ back.

 

“Leave him!” he snapped. Even though he was still on the floor, he could sense they expected an imminent attack from him. 

 

“That’s all you can do for your master?” one man called out, obviously trying to goad him. Aramis knew him by sight, but in his current condition, he could not remember the man’s name. He did recall that he had personally escorted him to be imprisoned  at the Chatelet.

 

“Leave him,” he repeated firmly. Even as he spoke, he knew he was in no position for negotiation. A gun was levelled at Athos’ head. An attack was impossible now.

 

“One wrong move, and your friend acquires a third eye. Tell me, would you still think him handsome with a bloody hole between his eyes? Answer me, musketeer!”  The last few words sounded like a curse.

 

_ Oh… you’ll curse musketeers in the end… I swear it. _

_ Even if you kill us, the others will find you… _

 

Aramis did not reply. He focused on trying to assess Athos’ condition. His observations were truly concerning. The swordsman had an ugly, deep slash across his back, and the medic could see that it had been sealed closed. 

 

_ Without cleaning it…  _

“You cannot leave his wound to fester,” he said slowly.

 

_ It’s like I’m reliving a bad dream. _

_ But I knew I could do it again if I had no other choice. _

_ Last time, I did it for d’Artagnan. _

_ Now it will be for Athos.  _

_ I can do it. _

_ Again.  _

 

One of men spoke up. “Actually, you’re in no position to tell us what we can or cannot do. In fact, a plaything should not even be allowed to speak.”

 

Another objected. “No, let him talk! In fact, I want to hear him pleading with us--begging us to use him like a toy in order to spare the mighty Athos.” 

 

The man whom he had once locked away in the Chatelet smirked. “I’d like to see that! If Athos is as noble as they say he is, he’ll never forgive himself…”

 

“Why are you talking like they’re going to live? You know they’re going to die soon.”

 

“Not necessarily,” the man lazily replied. “After all, this is just one big game of politics, and you never know who might end up using who---or how they might use them. The most important thing to remember is to have fun, while you still have the chance.”  Suddenly, he seemed to remember Aramis, and knelt down next to him. He cupped the medic’s face in one hand, caressing his cheek with the other. “So, if you beg prettily enough, I may just let you tend to Athos’ wound properly.”

 

The musketeer recoiled from his touch.

 

“What? You don’t want to help your friend?” The bandit’s voice was mocking now.

 

“I do,” Aramis whispered. He forced himself not to pull away this time.

 

His tormentor ordered the others to take Athos outside. Although the musketeer lieutenant was nearly unconscious, his foggy eyes managed to find Aramis’. 

 

The marksman tried to muster enough self-confidence to convey it in his gaze, but he knew he had failed. They brutally dragged the swordsman up the stairs to the door. 

 

The bandit hauled Aramis to his feet. “Get moving! We are going to follow them. But be forewarned--one wrong move, and your master is the one who will suffer.”

 

_ There is no way I can do anything now… even if I were in top shape, it would be nearly impossible...and now I am barely able to walk… _

 

_ There is nothing I can do except comply with their orders. _

_ I owe Athos that much. I won’t fail my brother. _

_ God, help me, please… let me be strong… one last time.  _

_ My life is forfeit, but please, let Athos live… _

 

_ Please.... _

 

They reached the door at the top of the stairs. The man shoved Aramis against the wall, and gave him a satisfied smirk. 

 

The marksman knew that his tormentor was reveling in his fear, but there was nothing he could do. Although he had already decided to sacrifice himself, he was not able to overcome his trepidation.

 

The bandit smiled cruelly. His touch was light, almost gentle, and it made Aramis sick. He had prepared himself for pain and humiliation, but not for this. He desperately tried to slow his breathing.

 

He did not hear what his captor said next.

 

_ A mistake. _

 

The man smiled, his cold eyes traveling over Aramis.

“You will please me...and if you do well, I may decide to let your master live.”

 

_ Why does he call Athos my master?! He seems to despise him… he knows that Athos is a nobleman, and perhaps even in his hatred, he cannot overcome the respect for the aristocracy that has been learned over generations. _

 

It was probably not important, but Aramis needed something to occupy his thoughts. 

 

He was led to a nearly empty room. There were three cages lined up against the wall. They seemed to have been there for quite some time. Rusted metal rings to which chains could be attached were fastened on the wall behind them.

 

Athos lay in one of the cages, curled into a fetal position. His eyelids fluttered for a few moments, but he did not open his eyes. 

 

A column stood in the middle of the room. This seemed odd, as there was no obvious structural reason for it to be there. However, the the purpose for it soon became apparent to Aramis. There were a series of hooks, rings, and chains all around the column, and it was dark with blood stains. 

 

With a shock, Aramis recognized the place. This was one of the buildings which had belonged to Richelieu and his Red Guard. Apparently Rochefort had inherited it when he had become prime minister. 

 

One of his wrists was put into a chained cuff, but the other remained free. The man approached Aramis with a vicious smile. He held out a cat o’ nine tails whip. 

 

“You will use it.”

 

Aramis’ heart nearly stopped. He could not possibly hit Athos with it. It would inflict too much damage!

 

His captor seemed to read his mind, and pressed the whip into his hand, his grin widening.

“On yourself.”

 

Self-flagellation. 

Relief flooded through his body. 

 

He nodded, and took the whip eagerly. Perhaps too eagerly, judging from the glint he saw in the man’s eyes. 

 

“Hit your back.”

 

He obeyed. Pain blossomed on his already abused skin.

 

“Harder.”

 

Aramis complied. His brother’s life hung in the balance, and he knew he had to follow his instructions to the letter. He could feel the damage that the whip was inflicting on  his body.

Which he was inflicting on his body.

He tried to hit himself as hard as he could, but he began to falter. 

 

“Ask me to do it for you. Plead with me!”

 

When Aramis heard himself speak, all he could think of was how strange his words sounded. He had nothing in common with this man who was on his knees, pleading to be tortured. Pleading to be abused. 

 

He felt Athos’ gaze on him, and could see the empty expression on his face, clouded by the pain of his own injuries. 

 

This kneeling shell of a man screamed as the hot iron branded his skin. 

 

When this broken man was finally given bandages and alcohol and allowed to tend to Athos, Aramis had to take over.

 

The marksman knelt near his brother. Athos was conscious. For a moment, deep despair shaded his eyes. 

 

“Don’t,” Aramis pleaded. He had never felt so detached while tending to his friends. He methodically cleaned the wound. Some pus was already visible, so he had to rub the injured area to fight the infection. He used up the large quantity of alcohol he had been given. 

 

Before he had started the treatment, Athos had cast a longing glance at the bottle. Aramis had made a light joke about it, but his voice had sounded strange and distant even to his own ears, and the swordsman had flinched. So the medic had decided to say nothing more.

 

He bandaged the wound, then started to clean the less severe injuries. He had not been given any herbs, but did all he could with clean rags and alcohol. Finally, he finished, then withdrew to a corner of the cage. Emotions were bubbling deep in his heart, but he did not want to acknowledge them. He was still conscious, but had no strength to answer Athos when he asked for some water. Aramis helped him to drink, then returned to his spot. 

 

The numbing pain slowly infiltrated into his awareness. He leaned forward, but the pain increased. Finally, he curled up on his side facing Athos.

 

“Aramis…”  the swordsman whispered. It was strange--that was his name, but for the first time in his life, he felt no connection to it. 

 

“Do you want some water?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

 

“You should drink it,” the swordsman replied hoarsely.

 

Aramis did not reply. He did not touch the waterskin. 

 

He moved closer in order to check Athos’ temperature. His brother’s skin was far too warm. He took the last piece of cloth, and poured some water on it in order to bathe the swordsman’s face with it.

 

“Stop!” the lieutenant rasped.

 

“You’ve got a fever. It must be kept at bay,” he replied quietly.

 

“And what about you?!” Athos’ voice was full of anger. “Do you just want to die here?! If that happens, what am I going to tell Porthos?!”

 

Aramis knew that in normal circumstances, he would have been concerned. He would have tried to placate the furious swordsman. However, now Athos’ wrath just seemed to flow over him like a gentle breeze. In his heart, he knew he needed to think seriously about composing a message for Porthos. His brother would be full of grief. 

 

“Tell Porthos I’m sorry... and that I asked him to take care of you. You’ll need his help getting home from the taverns.”

 

“Aramis! No! You are not going to tell me goodbye! If I am able to talk to Porthos, it will mean we both have survived!”

 

_ Athos… I am broken. I am finished. There’s nothing left in me.  _

_ I feel so empty… but I cannot let Athos worry. It may harm him. _

 

“Yes, brother,” he answered quietly. 

 

There was a commotion in the courtyard. A newcomer gave a parchment to the main bandit. Whatever was in the letter upset the bandit. He began to argue with the masked stranger, but the man ignored his protests, and merely pointed to the document. 

 

Aramis’ tormentor approached the cage with an angry look. He barked out orders, and the marksman was seized, then shoved towards the door. Something was terribly wrong. Athos struggled to sit up, but the men threatened to shoot him if he tried anything.This was hardly surprising.

 

_ I should be afraid. I should feel something... _

 

For a moment Aramis wanted to be able to feel--to convey to Athos with his gaze his faith in his leader, as well as his loyalty. But at this point, his heart was empty. He was not even sure that he had any faith left. Athos quickly broke eye contact. 

 

Then he heard his name called out, followed by angry questions from the relentless swordsman. 

 

Aramis was dragged towards a cart. It seemed to be associated with the masked messenger, who stood next to it with a pistol in his hand. Probably he had arrived in it. The masked man motioned for them to throw the musketeer onto the cart. Once they did, Aramis tried to sit up, but before he managed to do so, he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel touch the back of his neck.

 

“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

 

He stiffened when the masked man leaned closer. Then a familiar voice whispered in his ear.

“Yes… and be sure you make it look good when you fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise some answers in next chapter, so please don’t shoot me!
> 
> Riversidewren, thank you for you beating!
> 
> Thank you for reading and reviewing. Reviews make my day!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milady's POV

Milady

 

The ride back to Paris was uneventful. She was impressed by the pace they were able to keep, and even more impressed by how the Queen managed to endure it. The woman was clearly exhausted, but she did not allow herself to show even a moment of weakness. However, when Milady looked into the Queen’s eyes, she could see that fury was singing in her heart. 

 

Even if Milady was a cold and soulless creature, there were still some crimes which made her blood boil and caused her to thirst for revenge. This time, she knew she was not alone in her desire for vengeance, and that was quite a refreshing feeling. Her gaze slipped over the musketeers. She had been forced to admit several times during her service for Cardinal that they were exceptional. But would it be enough?

 

She was truly disconcerted by Aramis’ absence. If her plan were to work, she needed the Spanish born musketeer.  He was her only option.

 

_ One step at a time. First, you must arrange the meeting. Then you can worry about the stupid white knight. And not just about him. _

 

_ Athos is not important in this plan. He is not important in your life. He is just another one of the Musketeers’ lieutenants. Olivier is dead. Oliver has nothing to do with Athos, you stupid, naive girl! _

 

She urged her horse into a gallop, and passed Treville. He nodded to her, showing once again that he agreed with her plan. She had to make sure that she was the first one back to the Palace in order to soothe the King. She was a bit afraid of what awaited her at the Louvre, but if Rochefort had not yet returned, she could still maintain control of the situation.

 

When she took a last glance at the musketeers, she saw how pale the Queen looked, and felt fury surge into her heart. That was a good sign. Her wrath always served her well, as she would not rest until it was satisfied. 

 

She was able to gain entry into the Palace without incident, as no one stood guard at the rear entrance. That made her uneasy. She had left her horse loosely tied to a wooden post in the stable. She had done nothing more to care for the exhausted beast. Its passive obedience reminded her too much of the musketeers.

 

_ Loyal to a fault, and ready to be ridden into the ground at the whim of the KIng. And he treats them exactly the way he treats his horses. As long as they are agile and in their prime, he loves them...but once they are not, he discards them without a second thought…  _

 

She made her way to her chambers, and immediately ordered a bath. Then she summoned her servants to dress her properly. She studied her reflection in the mirror, practicing her most charming smile.

 

A half an hour later, she slipped into the King’s chamber, using a secret corridor he had shown her. She had no intention of talking to the Red Guard who was standing guard outside the door to the royal apartment. Suddenly, she felt lightheaded. She stopped for a moment, and took in a deep breath.

 

_ Something is wrong. I felt fine during my ride. If I were ill, the fatigue of the journey would made the symptoms of any illness evident hours ago. So I must have somehow been exposed to a poison here… but where?! I haven’t eaten anything since I returned. Is everything here coated with some sort of toxic substance?  _

 

She saw the King stretched out lazily on his richly decorated bed, and spoke up. 

 

“Sire?” As he turned to look at her, she curtsied.

 

Louis clapped his hands in delight. “My sunshine! I missed you so much!”

 

“Please forgive me. I haven’t felt well.”

 

“Oh, my Dear… I hope you’re not ill.”

 

“No, Sire. I just have not been myself--I am so afraid for the Queen. I know what it is like to be kidnapped and mistreated…”

 

“You’re such a kind soul, my Dear...so selfless! Come, sit next to me.”  He patted the bed in a gesture more appropriate for summoning a dog, not a lover. 

 

Milady bowed modestly, and obeyed with a sweet smile. She took his hand into her own, then lifted it to her lips.

 

“You’re a wonder,” he murmured. “Always so warm and affectionate.” His voice turned petulant then. “Why is my own Queen always so cold to me?”

 

She quickly recalled which story she had told the King about her parents. “Sire, you must remember that although we are both women, we were brought up very differently. She was raised from birth to be a timid and perfect wife, while my parents allowed me to speak my mind.”

 

“Well, if she were really so perfect, we would have had many children by now!” he said bitterly. Giving her a hopeful look, he asked, “You said you didn’t feel well. Do you think you might be pregnant?”

 

“Not yet, Sire,” she replied, modestly lowering her gaze.

 

_ Although I considered ceasing to actively prevent it. After all, giving birth to the King’s child could secure my position. Even though the King is not exactly the man I would want as the father of my child… _

 

_ Damn it! Stop thinking about Athos! _

_ To conceive Athos’ child and raise it as the King’s… _

_ Stop it! _

 

“Forgive me for asking. I didn’t want to upset you by bringing it up. I know it’s a sensitive topic, but I think we that perhaps we should spending time working on this...project.” He winked at her, giggling like a naughty schoolboy.

 

“With pleasure,” she purred, her mind occupied with trying to estimate when Treville and the Queen would arrive.

 

As she was still kissing his fingers, the King started to fumble at her corset with his other hand. It was soon obvious that he would never succeed in getting it off her in that fashion.

 

“Do you really think that the Queen was kidnapped?” he asked suddenly. “You believe that it wasn’t a thinly disguised escape attempt?”

 

She held back a smile.

 

“Yes, I do. She is loyal to you, Sire. And even if you doubt it, I am completely convinced that she’d never leave her child behind.”

 

He nodded, but seemed distracted. “Rochefort seemed to be so sure.”

 

“Sire, I know nothing about politics, but I dare say I know a mother’s heart...and if I had a child who was alive, I’d never abandon it, no matter how desperate or unhappy my situation.”

 

“Oh, poor thing! You never told me that you buried a child as well as your husband!” 

 

She allowed a single tear to trail down her cheek. The King gently kissed her hair. She leaned into him, seeking the comfort that he could never give her. 

 

A knock at the door startled her, and Louis grunted in annoyance.

 

A moment later, the guard’s voice could be heard outside the door. “Your Majesty, the Queen is asking to see you.”

 

“Forgive me, my Dear!” the monarch murmured, stumbling as he got up.

 

“May I accompany you, Sire?”  Milady supported him easily. It was obvious she had experience helping incapacitated men--experience that a lady would not normally have.

 

“Yes, of course,” he said easily.

 

They went to the throne room. The servants had just finished lighting the candles. It did not take long for Treville, Anne, and Constance to appear. They were disheveled, and their clothes were covered in mud. 

 

Louis, clearly shocked, stood up.

 

“Anne?” His voice was tentative.

 

“Sire.”  She bowed deeply. “I am so happy to see you. I was so afraid that I’d never see Paris again.”

 

“They told me you had escaped to Spain!” There was both relief and accusation in his voice.

 

“I would never even consider such a thing!”  She spoke firmly, but the fatigue in her voice was obvious.

 

The King approached the Queen. She stiffened, but did not move.

 

Louis saw her response, and appeared shaken. “What has happened?! Treville?!” 

 

“Your Majesty.” The Captain bowed deeply. “May I make a suggestion?”

 

“Of course,” the King responded, his relief apparent. He was truly happy to see his wife and his best soldier alive.

 

“The Queen is very tired. If you wish to delve into the military details of the operation,  I’ll be happy to oblige you. However, I strongly recommend that Her Majesty be allowed a chance to rest.”

 

“I cannot grant your request, Treville. I need her by my side. Come, my darling.” He took Anne’s hand, and led her to her throne. She took her place graciously, but Milady saw the haunted look in her eyes. 

 

She hastily made her way over to Constance.

 

“Order the servants to bring blankets, hot wine, and food. The Queen looks completely exhausted!”

 

Constance nodded, and quickly left the room.

 

“You never cease to amaze me, my dear!” Louis exclaimed. “Your compassion does you credit.”

 

Milady bowed humbly.

 

The King turned to the Queen. “I cannot even imagine what you must have endured! What happened?” 

 

“Sire, we were attacked. My protectors did all they could to save me, but in the end, I was taken. I was drugged, and remained so throughout my captivity. When I finally regained consciousness, I was already safe with your musketeers.”

 

“Your Majesty.”  Although his injury surely pained him, Treville bowed low once again. “I am afraid that a few of Red Guards who accompanied us were working with the attackers. Their actions during the fight made their betrayal obvious. I am ashamed to admit that I was shot, and did not see the kidnapping when it occurred. I was well aware that I could not pursue the bandits by myself, especially with my injury. I knew that the estate where my men had been sent to recover was not far away. I managed to make my way there. Once I arrived, a group of musketeers set out immediately on a rescue mission. They managed to free Her Majesty, and we hastened back to Paris.”

 

“I see.” Louis took the Queen’s hand. “I regret that Rochefort was not able to hear your story. He had expressed some serious concerns about the Queen. Which of your men found my wife?”

 

“Athos and Porthos.”

 

“Summon them immediately. I wish to speak to them.”

 

“Unfortunately, that is not possible, Your Majesty. They stayed behind to function as a sort of rear guard. Their fate remains unknown.”

 

The King appeared troubled. “That does not sound good.”

 

Constance returned at that moment, bearing hot wine and blankets. 

 

“Ah, Constance. You have done well in your service to the Queen, but your husband seems to be upset about your prolonged absence. He has petitioned for you to be released from service so you can return home.” The King paused, then said sternly, “He made some mention of misconduct on your part.”

 

The redhead gasped in shock, and shot a despairing glance at Treville.

 

The Captain spoke up, his voice smooth. “If I may ask, how many of the Queen’s ladies in waiting are skilled with a blade, Your Majesty?”

 

Louis frowned. “That’s beside the point,Treville. A true lady has no reason to be trained in such things.”

 

“True, but I am very concerned about the Queen’s safety. Someone appears to be targeting her. It is my recommendation that Constance remain in Her Majesty’s service in order to provide an additional measure of security.”

 

“Please, Sire,” Anne whispered. “I’d feel better with her at my side.” She seemed as distraught as Madame Bonacieux.

 

“I’ll consider the matter further tomorrow. Right now, I’m tired. Treville, I want those bandits found!”

 

“Yes, Sire. I must confess that I am afraid that they may be after Rochefort as well.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“His name was heard in their camp.”

 

Louis nodded, but his eyes appeared unfocused. He dismissed everyone, Milady included, in order to be alone with his wife.

 

Milady had no idea if he was about to forgive or scold his Queen. The lack of an official accusation against her was good news. In any event, the green-eyed murderess was too busy setting her plan in motion to give much thought to Louis and Anne.

 

Fortunately, she had the necessary skill to forge a few letters. She also knew just whom she had to bribe in order to obtain information about a pair of musketeers who had been transported to the headquarters of the Red Guard. She truly hoped that Aramis was one of them. According to the report that Morineau that given, the Inseparables should have already arrived in Paris. 

 

_ Have the other two been killed? Is Athos dead?! _

 

_ Stop it! You need Aramis, not Athos, to carry out your plan...and it must be done as soon as possible. According to your spies, despite the sudden illness which slowed him down, Rochefort is likely to return soon. _

 

Milady had had to suppress a smile when she had heard about his illness. Slowing down Rochefort had been a necessity, but making him suffer had been an added bonus. 

 

However, it had not slowed him down enough. When she saw him entering the city, she knew she was running out of time. At that point, she could think of only one thing to do--and she had no time to lose. After disguising herself in men’s clothes and quickly forging a letter, she soon had the key part of her plan in her possession--Aramis.

 

It had taken every ounce of her willpower to ignore Athos, covered in blood and curled up in a cage. But she had forced herself to do so.

 

_ Of all people, you should understand. There was no other way. I had my duty to France… _

 

She had left Athos with a heavy heart, but she now had what she needed. Disturbingly, Aramis was barely able to walk, and that made her uneasy. She hoped that she had a remedy for that. The most important element of her plan was to persuade the musketeer to play his part. Fortunately, he was too weak and traumatized to resist. 

 

She needed to find a convincing way to appear to shoot him. Her first thought had been to actually shoot him. But when she saw his condition, she realized that he was already too badly injured. She could not add to his wounds without fear of immobilizing him completely.

 

She leaned over him, and whispered her instructions. He showed no reaction, but she sensed that he understood her. When he was shoved onto her cart, she immediately jumped in and aimed her pistol at him. In the closed courtyard, the shot was almost deafening. Aramis fell, and lay still. Now came the easy part--getting away from that place.

 

They finally arrived at the house she had selected for their hideout. When they entered the stable, she carefully placed her hand on his bleeding back.

 

“Aramis, you need to get up,” she said firmly. He did not move. Milady sighed, and turned him onto his side. She picked up her waterskin, and splashed some water in his face. Once again, he showed no response. 

 

She slapped his face. “Wake up!”

 

He mumbled something under his breath, and his swollen eyes opened a bit.

 

His condition was far worse than she had thought. Would he still be able to participate in her plan?

 

“Aramis?”

 

“Athos…”

 

“I’ve sent word to Treville--he’ll send some men to free him. Right now I need to get you inside the house so I can tend your wounds.”

 

“Why did you save me instead of him?”

 

“Because you speak Spanish. I need a Spanish Musketeer.”

 

Just in case, she had come up with a backup plan. However, she knew that it was unlikely to succeed.

 

She led the swaying musketeer inside the house. She guided him to a table, and helped him to sit down on the wooden bench that ran along it. Exhausted by the effort of walking, he laid his head on the table. Luckily, he was already shirtless. She began to clean his torso with some warm herbal water, grimacing when she saw the extent of his injuries - cuts, gashes, bruises, burns. 

 

_ I need him coherent and on his feet… _

 

She had the necessary knowledge and equipment to tend to his wounds, but she did not enjoy the task. He did not flinch once while she worked, which was concerning. She was well aware of how much pain she was inflicting on him.

 

“Aramis, look at me.” She cupped his face. 

 

He blinked, his gaze unfocused. She swore, and decided to resort to the only other treatment she could think of- a herbal draught. In her experience, these leaves that had been brought from the New World seemed to work wonders. She hoped that they would have the same effect on Aramis.

 

_ And I hope that I don’t kill him in his weakened condition. _

 

He obediently drank the concoction, and slowly seemed to regain his senses.

 

His eyes finally seemed to focus, and he appeared astonished when he recognized her.  “Milady?”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “It took you long enough. Yes, it’s me. Are you lucid enough to listen to my plan?”

 

“Your plan?”

 

“Yes, a foolhardy plan to save France--and the King and Queen. Are you interested in helping me?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Good, because I have cast you in a crucial role. You will be Miguel Carlos Juan Sanorez, a Spanish spy operating in the Palace. The cover you have assumed is that of Jean de Tronan, an embassador from Savoy. Your are to present an order for Rochefort to return to Spain for further “studies” due to unacceptable behaviour.”

 

“An order from whom?”

 

“Estavez Sanchez Frederico Sevillez.”

 

“When?”

 

“Tonight. Rochefort is back. We must finish him off, and be quick about it.”

 

He nodded.

 

“Come, let’s get you into bed. You have two hours to get some sleep. When you wake up, I’ll get you a quick bite to eat, and then we’re off.”

 

She helped him stand up, and realized with dismay that she was having to support nearly all his weight.

 

_ This is not a good sign… they really did a number on him. This plan is already in trouble, and we haven’t even put it into motion yet.  _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren thank you for betaing.
> 
> Dear Readers, I’d love to hear your thoughts!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

As they passed through the city gates, a boy dressed in ragged clothing emerged from behind a wall. The child appeared to be about seven years old. He darted over to Porthos, who had slowed his horse as they entered the narrow streets of Paris. 

 

The dark skinned musketeer instinctively knew that the boy was not a random beggar, but a messenger.

 

“The Queen sent me. I’m to tell you to go straight to the garrison,” the boy said breathlessly, reciting the words that he had probably learnt by heart. 

 

Porthos knew that the Queen the boy was referring to was Flea. He still trusted his former love enough to listen to her words. Especially when her wishes sounded so… reasonable. It was clear that she wanted to prevent him from acting recklessly. And it was also clear to him that he was completely on edge. In fact, he thought he might be capable of tearing someone apart with his bare hands if in doing so he learn where Aramis was being held. His worry for his brothers consumed him, but instead of making him weak, it seemed to supply him with boundless energy and fortitude. However, he knew that once his brothers were found, his body was going to make him pay for what he had put it through. 

 

They had lost a good deal of time. Even though they were traveling faster than a cart, they were too far behind to catch the bandits before they entered the city. Slowing them down further was the fact that they had to make sure as they traveled that they did not miss any wagon marks that suggested that the cart had left the main road. 

 

Porthos nodded and gave the boy two sous. Then he took the quickest route to the garrison. He desperately wanted to get there as soon as possible, but when he caught sight of a Red Guard, he could not help but stop to talk to him.

 

His horse nearly trampled the man _. _

_ I suppose you could say that our conversation has started off on the wrong foot.  _

 

His victim ducked, then turned to shout at the reckless rider--and froze. He quickly took several steps back. 

 

_ So you’re guilty! _

 

Porthos jumped from the horse, feeling a fury that gave strength to his tired, aching body.

 

“Where are Aramis and Athos?!” he growled, his hand squeezing the man’s neck.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw d’Artagnan aiming his pistol at the man. The powder was probably not completely dry, but their prisoner had no way of knowing that. 

 

“I don’t know…” the man mumbled.

 

“So why did you nearly jump out of your skin when you saw me?!”

 

“Because you almost killed me!”

 

“I don’t think so,” d’Artagnan said slowly. “In fact, I think you were sure he was dead. I also think that if we search your belongings, we’ll find a mask.” He sighed, and turned to his brother. “But honestly, Porthos, you can’t just strangle him. We need to take him a deserted place so we can take our time making him suffer.  After all, he took our brothers, I think we should start off with his fingers… perhaps one broken finger for each unanswered question?” He smirked, and turned his gaze to their captive. “Just as a warmup before the real fun starts, of course.”

 

He sounded so like Aramis that Porthos’ heart ached.

_ Christ, I need to tell Mis how the pup has taken a page from his book… Please let me find Aramis alive and well… _

 

He knew that such a thing was improbable, but he could still pray for it. 

 

“I… I was ordered to arrest you!” the Red Guard stammered.

 

Porthos shook his head. “I’m not buying it. D’Artagnan, do you recall any request for us to put our weapons down? We were attacked by masked men. That sounds to me like the action of common bandits, not of upstanding members of the Red Guard acting on the King’s orders. His Majesty won’t be pleased...”

 

The man bristled at that statement. “Rochefort told us to bring you dead--or severely injured--to Paris! You’re traitors!”

 

“Well, it seems that you’ve failed your master,” Porthos growled. 

 

“Not entirely!” There was a glint of satisfaction in the man’s eyes.

 

_ Oh, he’ll regret that...very soon. _

 

“Where are they?!”

 

“They are secure in our quarters!”

 

Porthos took a firmer hold on the man. 

“Just like you’ll be in ours!”

 

He thought about Treville and the others, and felt a sting of worry.

_ Have they been arrested?  _

 

However, when he led the Red Guard towards the musketeer garrison, his hands were steady.

 

Only when he saw the musketeer on guard did he remember the order he had received when he had entered the city gates.

 

He nodded in response to the man’s greeting. “Hello, Bernard. Is the Captain here?”

 

“No, he’s at the Palace. But Etienne has received news about where Athos and Aramis are being held. He is mounting a rescue mission.”

 

Porthos nodded his thanks, and entered the garrison. He tossed the reins of his horse to a stableboy. A moment later, he had the Red Guard shoved against the wall. 

 

“Where?” he growled. 

 

“The Ile de la Cite.”

 

Porthos nodded. He knew where the palace that had belonged to Richelieu was located on the island. He had been certain that it had ceased to be used by the Red Guard once the Cardinal had died. But it seemed that he had been mistaken. 

 

He summoned one of the new recruits, and ordered him to keep the Red Guard under lock and key.

 

Then he found Etienne. He saw d’Artagnan holding the reins of two fresh horses that had already been saddled for them. 

 

“I have an uneasy feeling about this mission. It could be a trap,” the lieutenant muttered. 

 

“Do not suggest that we abandon the mission!” Porthos growled.

 

“Wait!” D’Artagnan’s eyes shone with excitement. “I have an idea. All we need is a cart and a few barrels of wine.”

 

Porthos gave him a sceptical look.“I’m not sure where we’re going to procure the wine. I haven’t seen any barrels in Athos’ room recently.”

 

The Gascon was undaunted. “Well, then we can just borrow some from a nearby tavern.”

 

“Borrow?” The dark skinned musketeer raised an eyebrow. He doubted that the barrels would ever be returned to their owner, but the lad’s plan did seem to offer an element of surprise. 

 

Soon the cart was ready. D’Artagnan, dressed in an old grey cloak with a hat pulled low over his eyes, was ready to play the role of carter. The journey was not long, but was still quite uncomfortable for the musketeers, who were hidden between the barrels and under the cart. Finally they reached the gate of Richelieu’s former palace. D’Artagnan rapped on the gate.   
  


“What the hell is this?!” muttered the guard, opening a little spy window. 

 

“Ah, it appears that you and your boys have pleased your commander!” d’Artagnan replied smoothly. “He’s sent you a reward!”

 

A bit of muffled conversation followed. From his place under the cart, Porthos could not follow it, but it seemed that their ruse had worked. Finally the gate was opened, and the instruction was given to the Gascon as to where to park the cart. 

 

Porthos suddenly heard a desperate war cry  - a unmistakable signal to attack. He rolled from under the cart. One glance assured him that the gate was now in the musketeers’ hands. He looked around, and understood why d’Artagnan had sounded the alarm. He saw a pole standing in a puddle of dry blood. Behind the barred window of one of the buildings, he recognized Athos. His brother was curled up in a bloody heap. Porthos howled, feeling fury supply him with the energy that he so needed. His opponent never stood a chance. The second man he merely tossed him to the ground, counting on the impact of the fall--or the actions of his fellow musketeers--to neutralize his enemy.

 

He ducked, then attacked another man. After disabling him, he finally reached the door. A bullet whizzed near his ear. He looked up, and was gratified to see that the man who had likely just fired at him had lost his hold on his musket. As the musketeer shooter was not Aramis, his enemy was still alive, but Porthos could easily remedy that with a mighty slash of his sword. 

 

The door was unlocked. He wasted no time rushing into the room. After a quick scan of the perimeter, he nearly froze when he saw three cages against the wall. Two were empty. One contained his leader. A central column in the middle of the cage was adorned with chains, rings, and hooks. A large blood stain was on the ground surrounding it. He forced himself not to think about the things which might have been done to his friends. Despite this, he realized his hands were shaking a bit when he succeeded in picking the lock and opening the cage. He entered, and knelt near the shivering form.

 

“Athos?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. There was no response.

 

“Calbert!!!!” he shouted. A medic was clearly needed.

 

D’Artagnan ran in, and came to an abrupt halt near the cage.

 

“Porthos, we must get him to the garrison! We need to get out of here. Where’s Aramis?!”

 

Athos moved a bit, enough to grasp Porthos’ forearm.

“There’s no Aramis…” he whispered. “Porthos… they shot him. I’m sorry…Porthos… I’m so sorry...”  His fingers slowly slipped away. 

 

“Athos! Focus!” The dark skinned musketeer hauled him up to a semi-sitting position, ignoring the fact that Athos was unsteady. “What happened?!”

 

“A man came. He shot him and took his body away.”

 

“No… NO!” Porthos screamed. He let go of Athos, allowing his brother to curl up into a ball once again. 

 

The pain of Aramis’ loss was blinding. But slowly, it began to transform into fury. This,  he could allow. He would lose himself in his vengeance. He had nothing to lose…

 

_ Because there is no Mis… I will never see disapproval or sadness in his eyes at the brutal deaths which I will inflict on the men who did this to him. _

_ There’s no Aramis…  _

 

This phrase sounded like a death sentence to the big man. 

 

“PORTHOS!” The sudden slap stung his skin. “Porthos, listen to me!” d’Artagnan begged.

 

He could not just lose himself in his vengeance. His brothers who were still alive needed him. Athos needed him. Someone would have to take care of him. Aramis would have wanted it that way.

 

“Are you with me?” the Gascon asked. His hands had Porthos’ collar in a death grip. 

 

“Yes. What do you want?” he growled at his brother. However, d’Artagnan seemed unaffected, and actually appeared rather relieved.

 

_ Probably relieved that I’m talking instead of killing everyone around me. _

 

“First of all, Aramis may still be alive. If he is really dead, why didn't they leave his body to torment Athos?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” whispered Athos.

 

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Porthos was not sure if his injured friend was actually following the thread of the conversation.

 

“They broke him… he sacrificed himself for me…” Athos stared vacantly at them, his voice empty. He was still curled up on his side. 

 

Porthos felt sick.

_ No… not again. Please! _

 

“Did he beg for them to spare him?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice tense. 

 

“No… he…” Athos choked. “He did everything they wanted in order to save me. Idiot!”

 

D’Artagnan relaxed. “That means they didn’t break him. He did just what he wanted to do. He was in control. He’ll heal,” d’Artagnan declared. 

 

Porthos stared at the Gascon in shock. 

 

_ He’s right. If only Aramis had survived… _

_ If only… _

_ Athos told us that he witnessed his death, so it is obvious that we are all in denial. _

_ Still, why did they take the body away instead of tormenting Athos with it? _

 

“Athos?” Etienne came to them, a letter in his hand.

Calbert had come with him. He quickly examined the injured man. “He doesn’t look good. We’ll need to summon a physician as soon as we reach the garrison.”

 

_ When did Etienne arrive? _

_ It is so silent. Is the fight over? _

 

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked, focusing on the paper that the lieutenant held.

 

“It’s a letter that gives permission for its bearer to kill Aramis and dispose of his body. It’s signed by Rochefort.”

 

“Is it enough to bring an accusation against him?”

 

“No… It may help but it’s not enough,” Etienne replied. “However, it seems to have upset the King, as he withdrew the order to arrest you. It’s impossible to find out more at the moment. I haven’t had a chance to speak with the Captain. He has basically been at the Palace ever since we got back.”

 

“Is Constance also at the Palace?” d’Artagnan asked. 

 

“Yes. Her husband had asked for her to be returned to him, but Treville somehow persuaded the King to allow her to stay. It is my understanding that he emphasized that her skill with a blade was essential to the Queen’s security.”

 

“Her husband tried to take her from the Palace?!”

 

“My guess is that he was paid to petition the King to have his wife returned.” Etienne sighed, “We need to get back to the garrison as soon as possible.” He averted his gaze from Porthos. “It’s a black day for all of us,” he said quietly. 

 

_ Stop it! Please. _

_ If you want to keep me from turning into a furious beast, you will stop.   _

_ Now. _

 

“I won’t believe he’s dead until I see his body!” d’Artagnan declared fiercely. Porthos felt incredibly grateful for the naive youth’s ability to deny the obvious truth.

 

Yet it was undeniable that to shoot someone while surrounded by hostile witnesses, then whisk the victim’s corpse away before anyone checked on it sounded like one of their own reckless plans. Would Aramis really leave Athos of his own free will? Had there been any time to ask? 

 

Porthos shook his head, wincing as pain made its triumphant comeback. 

 

“Has anyone found Aramis’ weapons?” the big man asked. He needed to be able to return them to their owner.

 

“No. We only found only Athos’ pistol and blade,” came the answer.

 

They rode back to the garrison. The physician was already waiting for them. Porthos did not know the man, and watched him suspiciously as he tended to Athos. The swordsman was feverish, but conscious. He did not resist the medical care, but it was clear that he did not really want it. Porthos knew that his friend would have preferred to be left alone with a large barrel of wine. Eventually, the doctor left, muttering something about infection--and that he would return for bloodletting if Athos did not improve.

 

Porthos made a mental note to find another physician for his brother.

 

The big man sat down near the bed. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and he  realized that his body finally had started to rebel against the lack of sleep. 

 

_ Aramis was hanging by his hands. His torso was covered in blood, but to Porthos’ eyes, his hips were the worst. On the skin in that area were matching sets of bruises in the shapes of fingertips. Then there were the rivulets of blood that were trickling down his legs… _

 

_ Porthos’ hands were shaking as he started to saw at the rope that bound his friend’s hands. At his touch, Aramis flinched, and moved as far away as the rope allowed. He slowly lifted his swollen eyelids. _

 

_ “You found me…” he whispered. The gratitude in his voice was painful to hear. _

 

_ “Mis!” he choked.  _

 

_ The thought of the weeks they had spent in a futile, hopeless search hit him hard. Everyone, himself included, had believed that Aramis was dead.  _

 

_ “Promise me you won’t let Athos drown himself in wine,” Aramis whispered. _

 

_ “NO! You’re not going to die on me now!” _

 

_ “It’s fine… it’s the best way… there’s no pain… no fear… I’m sorry, Porthos.” _

 

_ “No! Mis! Please!” He took Aramis in his arms, intending to carry his friend out of this damned place as soon as possible. _

 

_ The marksman cried out in pain when Porthos moved him, then went limp. _

 

A scream. Someone was screaming. 

 

Porthos jumped to his feet, dagger in hand. He saw d’Artagnan reaching for his weapon, but the screaming had stopped.

 

“A nightmare?” the Gascon asked softly. 

 

“Yes. It was just a bad dream,” Porthos replied, fervently wishing that his words were true.  __


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

He lay on the bed in the dilapidated room, staring into the darkness as he listened intently to Milady. She went through all the information that she thought he needed to accomplish his mission. It felt good to focus on a mission, especially because the drought she had given him had had an extraordinary effect - it had made him more lucid. In addition, it had significantly soothed the pain and his cough, which had finally ceased to torment him. He even felt a bit stronger, although he knew that he would pay for this impression when the effect eventually wore off. 

 

When she had finished, she asked, “How do you feel?” She sounded worried--most likely about his ability to play his part in her ingenious plan. She was truly a talented spy. It would best to stay on her good side. He prayed that she never became his enemy. 

 

“I won’t fail,” he said quietly, and he vowed not to. Too much was at stake. It should frighten him, but somehow, he felt beyond fear. He knew that this should worry him. 

 

_ Have I succeeded in walling off my emotions?  Or I can I no long feel any emotion? I feel so empty.  _

_ Focus! Don’t think about it. _

 

“Do you think you can keep down some food?” Milady asked.

 

Aramis thought for a moment. He knew that he needed some sustenance, but he also knew that vomiting might completely drain his waning strength. 

 

He really didn’t care if he ate or not. 

 

“I’ll try,” he replied halfheartedly. She handed him some bread and cheese. He took a few bites before his body protested. 

 

Milady watched him like a hawk. She was probably wondering if he would lose his consciousness. Her body was tense, and her nervousness was clear despite her attempt to preserve her usual composure.

 

_ I just feel numb. _

 

“You should try to sleep,” she said.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to after drinking the draught you gave me. Can you get me some paper and something I can use to write?”

 

She sighed, and gave him a pen and a dirty piece of paper.

“Are you planning to write your will?” she asked calmly. “That might be a good idea.”

 

He could not find the strength to answer her. He tried to write without changing his position. Every time he moved, he hurt. He was tired of hurting.

 

_ It would hurt much more without the drug she gave me.  _

 

_ “Porthos,  _

_ If you’re reading this, I’m beyond any pain now. Take care of Athos and d’Artagnan. The Gascon may decide that he is now free to die, and our leader may opt to drown his imagined guilt in wine. Know that everything that I did was my choice.  I am the only one to blame. Milady had nothing to do with it.  _

_ May God be with you. _

_ Aramis.” _

 

The marksman was dissatisfied with his letter, but he was too tired and emotionally empty to find better words. He folded the letter, and handed it to Milady. 

 

“If I don’t make it…”

 

“I hope that you’ll retrieve the order before you think about dying. However, I’d prefer that you present it to the King, not me.”

 

“Treville can present it.”

 

_ It will be a miracle if I am able to remain conscious long enough to give it to anyone.  _

 

He was lay motionless until he heard Milady’s voice telling him that it was time to get up. She brought him fresh clothes, and he was mildly surprised to realize that he was not ashamed that he needed her help to dress. 

 

“Lean on me. You need to conserve your strength, as you’ll need it later. You’ll be on your own for your negotiations,” she said. Her voice was matter of fact. She showed no emotion. 

 

_ I prefer that kind of detachment. It doesn’t require anything from me. The last thing I want to do right now is to face my brothers and their care.  _

_ I hope Athos is safe by now.  _

_ Do I really hope? _

_ Do I really care about him? _

_ No… I just want him to be safe in the garrison. _

_ Do I? _

_ What’s wrong with me? _

_ Nothing. I’m just a damaged weapon which needs to be replaced. _

_ After performing its last task.  _

 

He allowed to Milady support his weight as they headed for the horses. Normally, he would have been mortified to have to use a stool to get into the saddle. Now, he just felt indifferent.

 

_ Just like I feel about everything. Focus! Don’t forget that you have a mission to complete before you can let go… Rochefort is too dangerous to be allowed to live...and to continue to manipulate the king. You have to save the woman you loved, as well as your brothers. Then you will be free to let go.  _

 

It was a dark, rainy night.  They hardly saw anyone on the streets.  The poor weather had caused the inhabitants of the city to seek refuge in their homes or taverns. The marksman’s face was hidden under a mask. Milady had given him a black cloak, and its large hood gave him an additional measure of anonymity.

 

Aramis licked drops of water from his lips. Somehow, the action was soothing. He was not truly thirsty, but he felt impossibly dehydrated. Like an old parchment.

 

_ And as easily torn as an old piece of paper.  _

 

They reached the Seine, and passed through the port. He recognized the small house that Milady had mentioned. It must have been abandoned some time ago. Aramis recalled that an old retired watchman had once lived there. The man must have died, and the building had fallen into ruins. It never had been properly maintained. 

 

Milady was still in men’s clothes, and was wrapped up in a long cloak. She stayed with the horses. He approached the house, stumbling a bit along the way. As the windows were boarded up, there was no way of seeing if anyone was already inside.

 

Aramis was preparing to knock when the door opened.    
  


“It is an awful night, my friend. Come in.”  A tall man stood just inside the door. He wore a mask, and his French had a heavy Spanish accent. 

 

“Indeed. I miss nights in the Patio de los leones,” the marksman replied in French, playing along with the game of passwords.

 

“You miss Dolores.”

 

“Who could truly miss Alhambra?”

 

The other man nodded, satisfied.

 

“So, you asked for this meeting. What happened?” This time, the stranger spoke in Spanish. “Are you wounded?”

 

“Yes, but that’s not the reason I asked for a meeting--although it may be connected. The reason is called Rochefort.”

 

“Vargas’ best spy.” The Spaniard spoke with more than a touch of irony.

 

“I would term him a madman.”

 

“A madman? Whom did this idiot kill this time?” Irritation was clear in Estavez’ voice. His eyes flashed angrily, and Aramis suddenly felt a bit uneasy. But he banished any fear for his own safety.

 

_ He’s a dangerous man. I must be careful not to make him suspicious. I am not mentally sharp enough to easily fool an intelligent opponent. _

 

“It’s more a matter of whom he wanted to have,” the musketeer replied swiftly. “I don’t think our king would appreciate knowing that his little sister has been claimed by a commoner.”

 

“Rochefort told Vargas that he could make the queen fall in love with him. Hmm..it would be excellent to be able to accuse her of betrayal.”

 

“Do you not see there is more than a bit of difference between falling in love and being raped?! Apparently Rochefort doesn’t--but Vargas needs to explain it to him before it’s too late, as I’m pretty sure that we’ll pay for his incompetence.”

 

“I tried to set up a meeting with him, but he did not answer my summons. That is more than a little disturbing. As is the recent death of our ambassador…” Estavez sighed. “Well, what do you want from me?”

 

“An order with Vargas’ seal on it. I know he’s given you permission to issue decrees in his name. I need an order for our comte to immediately depart for Spain, in order  to learn his rightful place in our intelligence network.”

 

“Are you aware that he may kill you for presenting him such a thing?”

 

“I’ll be careful. Besides, I have sworn to lay down my life for our country.” Aramis forced himself to give his companion the briefest of smiles. 

 

Estavez remained silent, and appeared to be hesitating. His eyes wandered over the marksman, then over the small room. 

 

“Did a physician see to your injuries?” he asked, surprising Aramis with his question. 

 

“Yes.” he replied curtly. “I’ll live.” He was not sure where this conversation was going.  _ Does Estavez suspect anything? _

_ Does he have the seal with him? _

_ If he does, I could kill him, and try to forge the order.  _

_ If not…all of this will have been for nothing.  _

 

Estavez took out a paper and writing utensils. He sat down on a chair at the little table, and started to write. Aramis glanced over his shoulder in order to be sure that Estavez was writing as per the instructions that he had been given. After a while, the Spaniard finished a short and explicit order for Rochefort to return to Madrid. He sealed it, and handed it to Aramis. 

 

“Be careful,” Estavez said quietly. He then departed.

 

Aramis leaned against the wall, and waited. Part of his brain told him that he was just being sensible. After all, Estavez might be watching the building. However, another part of his brain told him that he was waiting simply because he did not to have the strength to go anywhere. 

 

He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to cough, and tried unsuccessfully to suppress it. When it came, the cough ripped through him with a vengeance, and he landed on his knees. He desperately struggled to catch his breath, to soothe the fire in his lungs, to lessen the agony of his ribs. 

 

He tasted a metallic liquid in his mouth. 

 

“Aramis!” someone hissed. His face was cupped in a pair of hands.

“Breathe!” a feminine voice ordered tensely.

 

_ Why is she so upset? I got the order.  _

 

He blinked, trying to banish the dark spots which were crowding into his vision.

 

“The order?”

 

He nodded, and gave Milady the parchment. 

“You cannot stay here,” she stated. “Estavez may come back.”

 

What she said made sense, but it did nothing to change the fact that he was not able to move.

 

“Just throw me into Seine,” he muttered, feeling completely exhausted.

 

“You’re insane!” Suddenly, her eyes widened, and it seemed as if something had dawned on her. She cursed under her breath.

 

She touched some dry leaves to his lips, and ordered, “Chew these!”

He obeyed, although his mouth felt as dry as the leaves.

“Now take a few sips of this.” She offered him a small bottle.

 

Wine. 

He took a cautious sip. The liquid burned a bit, but the moisture was most welcome. He knew it would not be enough to quench his thirst.

 

Milady still knelt in front of him, supporting him with her arm. Her green eyes had a strange, thoughtful expression.

 

_ I don’t need your compassion! _

 

But he lacked the energy to say the words out aloud. He did not resist when she helped him to stand up. His grip tightened on her arm as the world whirled around him. She gave him a moment to reequilibrate, then firmly guided him towards the horse. 

 

_ I can’t ride. Leave me here. I did what you needed me to do. Now it’s up to you.  _

 

But he remained silent. He obediently tried to mount the horse, but ended up on the ground. 

 

She cursed.

“Take the document to Treville,” he whispered.

 

She surveyed their surroundings quickly, then once again hauled him to his feet and directed him towards a warehouse. He never thought it would seem so far away. Finally she allowed him to lie down, and covered him with some rags.

 

“I’ll send someone to get you. Just hold on!” She squeezed his hand tightly.

 

“Save those…”  _ deserving to be saved. No, I should use different words with Milady, as Athos might not fit her description of ‘worth saving’... _

_ “ _ Save the others,” he murmured. He could barely hear his own voice. 

 

“You did well, you fool,” she said softly. “You did well. Just don’t die…”

 

If he had not known better, he would have thought that it sounded like a plea…

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I’ve managed a bit earlier update. I hope you’ll enjoy it!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

 

Treville

 

He reached the garrison courtyard, and took his time dismounting. He needed a moment of respite. His wound throbbed mercilessly, making each breath incredibly painful. He left his horse in the care of a stable boy, and slowly went up the stairs to his office and quarters. He cast a glance at the table where the Inseparables used to sit, and shook his head. 

 

_ They will come back.  _

 

The idea of their loss was unacceptable. He needed them now more than ever. He had too few people to lead the investigation and ensure the safety of the King and Queen, especially if every other guard or servant might be a traitor.  Then there was the matter of Bonacieux, whose petition had only complicated the situation. If Constance were to be forced to leave the palace, the poor queen would be stripped of her ally and protector. 

 

Treville stopped in the middle of unbuckling his weapon belt. Bonacieux! 

He quickly put on his cloak, stumbling a bit as he headed towards the gate. It was not too far, but he finally decided to ride, as he felt ill.

 

The ride was short, and a few minutes later he knocked on the door.

 

He head a familiar, but unfriendly voice. “Who’s there?”

 

“Treville. Captain of the King’s Musketeers!”

 

“You again!” Some grumbling was heard, but the door opened.

 

The musketeer entered quickly, not giving Bonacieux a chance to stop him. 

“Who paid you to demand that your wife be returned to you?”

 

“No one! I miss my wife!”

 

“Really? I find it odd that immediately after an attempt is made on the queen’s life, you ask your wife to abandon her service.  I think that if I dug a little deeper, I might find that you are part of a conspiracy against the king.”

 

“That’s a lie! I was furious when I heard that my wife spent last month in the company of four men! That is unacceptable.”

 

Treville smirked. The official version of Constance’s absence was that she had been sent on a mission for the queen. Gossip speculated that it had been some sort of espionage mission for the King’s foreign wife. But no one at court could have known that she had spent her time taking care of injured musketeers. However, Rochefort obviously knew the truth…

 

The Captain shrugged, and turned to head for the door. “Very well...but I must tell you that you can expect to hang alongside the person who paid you.”

 

“But the Prime Minister asked me to do it! He told me that he’s very concerned about Constance’s bad influence on the Queen. He said that it’s my responsibility to keep her in line, and that I should not be so lenient with her.”

 

_ I hope my words come true….I want to see Rochefort hang. _

 

“I understand the Prime Minister’s concerns, but he should not pay so much attention to gossip,” he replied swiftly. After all, most ladies in waiting had lovers. Usually they did not have affairs with musketeers, but it was not unheard of. 

 

“You must feel honored that Prime Minister spoke to you personally,” the Captain said slowly. Bonacieux turned paler, and Treville saw he had won.

 

“Why would the Prime Minister talk to me personally? One of his servants conveyed the message.”

 

“Does this man have a name?”

 

“Yes. Mathieu Toneau.”

 

Treville nodded as he thoughts began to spin. Rochefort had a servant called Toneau. He was merely a underling who tried to gain status and position by flattering anyone with noble blood. He was easy to manipulate with money, or even with simple praise. Questioning him would be unlikely to provide any useful information. Still, whether the man was acting on Rochefort’s behalf or not, it was interesting.

 

Treville bid his farewell, leaving behind a clearly terrified Jacques. All he wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, but when he reached the garrison, it seemed that that luxury was not to be afforded him. When he reached the garrison gate, he was informed that the King had demanded his presence. He sighed, then turned his horse around and rode back to the palace. 

 

He was directed by servants to one of the King’s chambers. The King was sprawled on a chaise-longue. He cast a glance towards Treville, his eyes unfocused.

 

“I’m very disappointed with you and your regiment. You are supposedly the best soldiers in France, but you allowed my wife to be kidnapped--or to escape… I’m still not sure which. Nonetheless, you made come her back... or you freed her from her captors. In any event, I need someone to find the culprits so I can execute them. Rochefort is of the opinion that even if you’re innocent of any wrongdoing, you deserve the death penalty for your incompetence.”

 

“Your Majesty, I failed in my duty to protect the Queen, so I will accept any punishment that you deem fit for me...but please don’t tarnish the names of the musketeers who died trying to keep Her Majesty safe.”

 

“Are you a simpleton, Treville? Why would I execute you now? I just said that I need someone to find the culprits! Now, have those two… Athos, and the other one--have they returned?”

 

“No, Sire. Unfortunately not.”

 

Louis sat up, his voice rising. “I want you to stay in the palace and put things right, Treville. Rochefort would be overjoyed if I gave him the four men who were recovering outside Paris. Yes, he wants to see them dead, but he did nothing to deserve such a prize!”

 

_ What?! Are you drunk?! Or worse - drugged?  _

 

Treville took in the animated King’s unfocused gaze, slightly widened pupils, and shaking hands. 

 

“Sire? You’re so pale…are you ill?” he asked, truly feeling worried. 

 

Louis stared at him, clearly surprised. 

 

“If you must know,” he mumbled, “a cold has been tormenting me.”

 

“Has the royal physician seen to Your Majesty?”

 

“Yes. He swore it would pass, and gave me foul things to drink.” When Louis whined like a petulant child, he seemed more like himself. “So, Treville, it’s settled. You’ll stay in the palace. I’ve ordered for a room to be readied for you. And make sure that Porthos and Athos are sent to me as soon as they return…even if they have to be carried!  You’re dismissed. Now go get some rest. You look awful!”

 

Treville bowed, then left. All he wanted to do was to lie down in the room that had been set aside for him. He honestly did not even remember how he got there. 

 

A knock.

_ Ignoring that.  _

Another knock.

_ Not going to answer. _

 

“Captain? Are you there?!”

It was Constance. 

 

“Are you going to open it? Or do have to shoot the lock?!”  Her teasing tone did not completely mask the fear and concern in her voice. 

 

“A moment!” he called, his throat rough and dry. He was surprised to realize that he was still fully clothed. He was stiff, and felt as if each of his buckles had left a painful print on his body.

 

He opened the door.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” Constance was not alone. The royal physician, Lemay, was with her. 

 

“What’s going on?” Treville asked, eyeing the doctor with suspicion. 

 

“May we come in?” Constance asked briskly. 

He stepped back, and allowed them to enter the room.

 

“First, I need for the doctor to examine you,” she said firmly. “If you wish, I can wait outside.”

 

“Then what?”  He began to unbutton his doublet, as resistance seemed futile. 

 

Once she saw that he was cooperating with her request, Constance seemed a bit less tense. However, she still appeared to be concerned. “Captain, I have noticed that quite a few people in the Palace have been looking ill. I asked Doctor Lemay to review the situation. I think you should hear what he has to say.”

 

The doctor took in a deep breath, and began to talk as he changed the Captain’s bandages.

 

“I am not quite sure what to think. I first thought that I was dealing with the minor ailments that are typically seen this time of year. However, it seems as if everyone in the Palace is suffering, and that worried me. I felt that I could safely rule out the plague, as the condition of my patients seems to be deteriorating very slowly. However, the fact that everyone, without exception, is getting worse makes me think that a poison may be the cause. Unfortunately, I have no experience in treating victims of poison.”

 

_ Could this day get any worse? _

 

“What about the King and the Dauphin?”

 

“They are both ill, but Rochefort has forbidden me to care for them. He has brought in another physician.”

 

“Who?”

 

“A man I have never heard of--Franc Junard.”

 

“What would you suggest as a treatment?”

 

“I think the best thing would be to leave the palace. My guess is that the poison is in the air.”

 

“How fast acting do you believe it to be?

 

“I don’t think you have been exposed yet, so you should not feel any symptoms until you have been here for three to four days. The first symptoms would be subtle. It seems that those who are inside the Palace only part of the day feel better outside.”

 

The Captain remained silent, hoping that Lemay would say more. However, the physician finished caring for his wound in silence. 

 

“It’ s healing.  I recommend that you stick to light activity for now.”

 

Treville nodded distractedly.

 

“I need to know everything--even the smallest of details might be useful. Is there a place where the poison’s effect seems to be stronger?” 

 

“I have noticed that the people who are close to the King seem to be some of the worst affected. If you like, I can leave you my case notes. They might prove useful.”

 

Treville nodded. “I would like a chance to read through them. Thank you.”

 

Lemay sensed that he was being dismissed. He bowed, then left. 

 

“Constance, I spoke with your husband.”

 

The redheaded froze, her eyes widening as she stared at Treville. 

 

“He thinks that he’s acting on the advice of Rochefort. Once we are rid of that traitor,  I am optimistic that Monsieur Bonacieux’s petition will soon be forgotten.” 

 

She let out the breath she had had been holding. “Thank you, Captain,” she murmured. The mere thought of returning to her husband terrified her. 

 

“We’ll find a way to protect you from him,” he vowed, and was moved when he saw a rush of gratitude in her eyes.

 

“How is the Queen?” he asked. Anne’s condition still weighed very heavily on his mind.

 

“Not well at all. She is very sleep-deprived and jumpy. In truth, she is afraid of even the smallest shadow. I don’t think I’m ever seen someone so depressed. The Dauphin is weak and fretful, which doesn’t help.” Constance sighed, then seemed to collect herself. “Captain, I did a quick investigation.” Her tone was now brisk, and she seemed calmer. “I have a list of all the various craftsmen that Rochefort employs on a regular basis.”

 

She started to recite a long list of names and addresses.

 

“Thank you, I’ll write down the names and pass them on to my men. The King has asked me to remain in the Palace for now.”

 

“Is there any news about Athos and the others?” she asked, her voice trembling. 

 

“No. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispered, clearly worried about her friends. 

 

He quickly wrote down the names and addresses, and sent the list to the garrison. Then he started to walk around the palace. The atmosphere was tense, but everyone that he saw seemed sleepy. Fatigue seemed to have infiltrated every nook and cranny of the building. No one had been spared its reach. 

 

Treville was in the courtyard when he saw Etienne rapidly approaching. Something in his lieutenant’s posture sent a chill into the Captain’s heart.

 

“Captain.” The musketeer, his eyes haunted, greeted him with a nod.

 

“Report!” Treville ordered, barely able to control his nerves. 

 

“We were given a lead as to the whereabouts of Athos and Aramis. We rode out immediately to check into it, and Porthos and d’Artagnan joined us. We found Athos in the Palace on Ile de Cite. He… told us that Aramis is dead.”

“What?!”

 

_ No! No… _

 

“Athos said that a man came with this paper.” Etienne handed him a parchment. “Then he shot Aramis, and took his body away. I suspect that we’ll find Aramis’ corpse soon...probably with something compromising placed in his hands.”

 

He read Rochefort’s order--or rather permission-- to kill Aramis and take his body. Probably the “True Musketeers” were behind this...

 

_ The Queen! It’s a plot against her… _

_ I… must be the one to tell her. She deserves a chance to grieve in solitude. If she is told by anyone else, she might betray her feelings for the marksman… _

 

“How’s Athos?”

 

“He’s in bad shape. He was tortured, and his wounds are infected.”

 

“And the other two?”

 

“Porthos is devastated. D’Artagnan refuses to believe that Aramis is dead. They are both injured, but...they’ll heal.”

 

_ Porthos will never heal after Aramis’ loss.  _

_ I won’t be able to keep him alive. Perhaps it would be best for me to just let him go.  _

 

“Thank you. Keep Porthos in the garrison. I’ll be there tonight.”

 

_ King’s orders be damned. I don’t care anymore. After all, I’ve already committed treason by hiding the Queen’s affair...at this point, ignoring one of the King’s orders can’t make things worse.  _

 

Only the fact that he stood before the door to the Queen’s apartments finally roused him from his thoughts.

 

After a moment, he knocked, bracing himself for the conversation that he must have with Anne.

 

Constance opened the door, and turned pale when she saw him. 

 

“D’Artagnan is alive, and relatively well,” he said quietly. He saw the relief in her eyes. “So is Porthos. From what I have heard, Athos is seriously injured…”

 

“And Aramis?” she asked, her voice tense.

“Dead.”

She gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand.

 

“I must speak with Her Majesty,” he said, his voice firm. “May I come in?” She nodded, and closed the door behind him.

 

He bowed before a second set of doors, which were already open. “Your Majesty.” 

 

Anne was sitting in an armchair. 

“Captain.”  She greeted him with a small nod of her head. 

“Has something happened?” she asked anxiously.

 

“I have received some news about Aramis,” he said, speaking in the formal manner that he always adopted at court.

 

“Bad news?” she breathed.

 

Constance appeared at her side, and took the Queen’s hand in her own.

 

“Yes. It has been reported that he was shot… and… I’m afraid that they have taken his body away for some nefarious purpose.”

 

Anne gasped. Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze. A keen escaped from her lips, but she quickly pressed her hand to her mouth. Tears began to fall from her eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Treville whispered. He felt completely helpless in the face of her despair. 

After a moment, he added awkwardly, “Your Majesty, please remember that you have a son who needs you.  Now I will take my leave, and give you some time to grieve.”

 

“Wait!” she ordered, “You will tell me everything you know, down to the smallest detail. I want to know. I need to know.”

 

He told her everything that Etienne had reported to him.. 

 

“Captain, I know that the King wishes to see the musketeers Athos and Porthos as soon possible. It seems sensible that Doctor Lemay be put in charge of their care. He can use the resources here at the Palace to give them anything he decides that they need. Constance, fetch Lemay.”

 

The redhead left. 

 

“Jean--” Anne whispered his first name, and he felt his throat tighten. “I need to see him one last time… I need to bid him farewell.”

 

“Your Majesty, I cannot allow you to risk your safety.”

 

“Please…”

 

He relented when he saw the pleading look on her face. “I promise I will do my best to make it happen, my Queen.”

 

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, you’re right. I cannot endanger his son. Please, forgive me…” she whispered, “but did he leave any family whose future should be secured?”

 

“No and yes, Your Majesty. I am familiar with the terms of his will - the only family mentioned in it are his musketeer brothers.”

 

She nodded, then stood abruptly and approached Treville.

“I want Rochefort dead. Do I make myself clear?” she asked. Her voice held no heat. Her tone was just incredibly sad. 

 

“Yes, my Queen.”

 

“Thank you. Now I should let you go. You should be with his family,” she said gently. 

 

She was right.

 

He rode towards the garrison. Lemay followed him in the cart.

 

“Where is Athos?” he asked the guards.

 

“In his room, Sir,” a young recruit replied respectfully. 

 

Treville froze when he saw a lonely silhouette sitting at the Inseparables’ table.

 

“Porthos?” he asked. 

 

The dark skinned musketeer showed no reaction.

 

“PORTHOS!” Treville snapped. 

 

“Athos is upstairs,” the big man replied, his voice toneless.

 

“Why are you sitting here?”

 

“Because I saw Aramis everywhere else.”

 

“How is Athos?”

 

“Unconscious. The physician is not optimistic.”

 

Treville put his hand on Porthos’ arm. The big man flinched. 

 

The Captain sighed, and left his musketeer. The big man saluted his dead friend with the bottle he held in his hand, then took a stiff drink.

 

When Treville entered, D’Artagnan was changing the cold rag on Athos’ head.

 

“I’ve brought the royal physician with me,” he announced. 

 

“No bloodletting,” d’Artagnan said firmly. “Aramis wouldn’t approve.”

 

“I’ll tell him,” Treville promised. 

 

“Did Athos tell you any more about Aramis?”

 

“No. he hasn’t regained consciousness. According to the doctor, the wounds aren’t fatal, but the secondary infection might be. If we can quell the infection, he should wake up but… his fever is high,” d’Artagnan said solemnly. 

 

“Why Porthos isn’t with you?”

 

“I sent him away. He cannot stand to hear Athos calling for Aramis.”

 

Treville bit his lip, and gestured to d’Artagnan to give Lemay some space at the bedside.

 

“Mis…” Athos rasped when the doctor started to unwrap his bandages, “Mis… don’t… I beg you… don’t.”

 

Treville’s heart broke.

D’Artagnan stepped back to the bed and took Athos’ hand in his.

“Hush… it’s fine….you’ll be fine.”

 

_ None of them will ever be fine again.  _

 

“D’Artagnan…” 

 

“Sir, Aramis is alive! We’ll find him!” There was both challenge and desperation in the lad’s voice.

 

“D’Artagnan, we must find him before they use him against us.”

 

“What do you mean? Aramis would never turn against us.”

 

_ Not willingly. But we are talking about his corpse… _

He explained quietly. 

 

D’Artagnan swallowed loudly, then murmured in a broken voice, “He’s alive.”

 

Treville could only envy that irrational hope.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am not sure when I update - happy Yule to all this who celebrate it!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: self-inflicted damage described as helpful.
> 
> If you want to skip this chapter you’ll lose only the description of Queen’s despair.

 

Anne

 

She lay curled up on the bed, hidden under several blankets. She could not stand to have Constance hovering over her. The redhead seemed to understand, and withdrew to a far corner of the room. However, even at a distance, her presence was stifling.

 

“Leave me alone!” the Queen ordered. 

 

Constance quietly left.

 

Anne shivered, curling up into a ball.

 

_ He is dead. I’ll never talk with him again...never again experience the joy of having his arms around me. I know it was a sin to dream about him...and about his touch. I risked everything by having those dreams. But they came to my imagination, and it helped me. All my sinful thoughts… all my dreams… and now I cannot believe that I’ll never feel his touch again. I’ll never see him. I’ll never talk to him. How can I face this world without the knowledge that he is alive...and that he cares for me? _

 

_ I never had the chance to talk to him after Rochefort took me. I never had the chance to tell him that I now truly understand his fears and pain.  _

 

_ And now…. _

_ Rochefort took away his voice, his gaze, his charming smile.  _

 

Anne’s fingers closed on a small, sharp object in the bed. It was a broken piece from one of her bracelets. She squeezed it tightly. The pain somehow made it easier to breathe.

 

She remembered how squeezing the hand of one of her ladies in waiting had helped to distract her from the pain of the Dauphin’s delivery. 

 

She took out the small knife that was tucked away in a sheath on her leg. She closed her fingers around the blade. It was tempting to tighten her grip, as the pain seemed to give her some relief. 

 

She took in a deep breath, and slowly passed her hand over the blade. Her touch was too light to cut her skin, so she pressed harder into the sharp edge.

 

The pain frightened her a bit. But then she saw Aramis’ face, the warmth of his gaze, the few drop of blood on his cheek after he had thrown himself on the bomb to protect her… The light was dancing in his eyes. His smile…

 

_ You’ll never see it again. _

 

A strangled sob ripped from her chest. She felt the blade cutting her delicate skin. She could feel moisture on her palm. 

 

Blood.

 

_ Have I severely injured myself?  _

 

She sat up on the bed to take a look at her hand. There was a lot of blood. She gasped. 

 

_ Am I bleeding out?! _

 

_ I can still feel Aramis’ hand on my sprained ankle. He was so distant then, but still so caring. _

_ I need you Aramis… _

_ I cannot face this world without you. _

 

Another drop of blood slowly rolled down her hand, cooling as it traveled across the skin. It was like a scream of redness on her snowy sheets.

 

_ I need you to tell me I’m worthy of you. _

_ I need you to tell me that you love me.  _

_ I need you to tell me that I did not betray you with Rochefort. _

_ But you’ve left me for good. _

 

She stared at the delicate skin of her forearms, and brought her hand to the knife. The blade trembled in her unsteady fingers.  She slowly passed it along her other hand, but she only felt its chill. A white trail was left on her skin. 

 

She tried once again. 

The same. 

 

She put a bit more pressure on the blade, but it hurt. It hurt too much to continue, even if this time only a single drop of blood was drawn from her skin.

 

_ With my palm it was so easy--now… I should embrace the pain. It will help me to remain calm.  _

 

But her body protested when she pushed harder. 

 

_ Christ! How all wounds must hurt! How Treville--and his other injured men--must be hurting.  _

_ How Aramis… _

_ He was tortured… _

_ They inflicted pain on him on purpose! _

_ And now Treville doesn’t want me to see his body, because it might be disfigured. _

 

She barely managed to reach the bucket before she vomited. The heaves tormented her for several minutes, and she did everything she could to ensure that Constance did not hear her. 

 

After the nausea had subsided, she crawled back to her bed.

 

Her mind went back to the happiest memories of her life. The time when Aramis held her in his arms in the convent. The times when he made love to her in amazingly tender ways, his touch and his body revealing to her pleasures that she had never dreamed of.

 

Each image that appeared in her mind--each sound that replayed--was like another cut into her very soul. 

The pain became unbearable. 

 

_ There is no Aramis.  _

 

This time she did not put heavy pressure on the knife, but instead cut herself with a quick slash. The blood immediately started to pool. The pain was surprisingly refreshing--almost soothing. She repeated the move again and again.

Finally her blade went through a previous cut, and it became too painful.    
  


She stared at her hand, mesmerized by the sight of her own blood slowly trickling down her skin. 

_ There is so much blood. Will I faint? Will I die?  _

_ Will I join my Aramis in Hell? We sinned against God’s will as written in the Commandments--and we did not seek absolution, as to confess our sin was far too dangerous in a world where so many things are placed above the Seal of the Confessional.  _

_ I would like to believe that somehow we’ll find each other in death...just as as Iseult and Tristan did.  _

 

_ I’ll accept my sentence to burn in Hell if I am given the chance to talk to him just one more time--to feel his hand on mine, and his lips on my mouth…  _

 

_ Will he forgive me for what Rochefort did to me?  _

_ Will he forgive me my weakness?  _

_ My selfishness…? _

 

_ Treville wanted me to live for our son… but I am too weak. I am not like your musketeers, Captain...and I am not your secret soldier, as Constance is. _

 

_ Aramis… would you call what I’m doing desertion? Would you condemn me for cowardice? Would you despise me? _

 

_ I need you… Even if you cannot be by my side as my lover or husband, I need to know you’re somewhere, alive and well. _

 

_ I love you so much…  _

 

_ Why I can’t I see the tender gaze you gave me that night in the convent? Why do I only see your haunted eyes, and remember how you recoiled from my touch?!  _

 

_ You were hurt so much… _

_ And you died alone… _

_ Surrounded by enemies.  _

 

“Anne?! My God, Anne!”

 

The voice was so distant. Someone shook her, and then a hand cupped her face. 

 

“Anne!”

 

She felt a sting on her forearms. It burned badly, and she moaned. But the pain made her look down at her friend, who was kneeling in front of her and treating her cuts with alcohol.

 

The blood, now diluted with expensive wine, trickled down her arm in small rivulets to stain the sheets. 

 

“Let me go,” Anne whispered.

 

“Where?”  Constance glanced up at her, then dried Anne’s hands with a cloth and examined the cuts.

 

“To him!”  Anne sobbed.

 

“Anne! Look at me! These cuts are superficial. They don’t even need stitches, but they may give you some ugly scars. I’ll bring you some salve--it should help speed the healing and reduce the scarring.”

 

“What for? The King never wishes to see me naked, and--” she could not finish her sentence. 

 

“This is not the way, Anne…” Constance whispered, gently tending to her friend’s hand. 

 

_ It hurts…  _

_ These small cuts hurt so much, but he was tortured. He had to bear so much! _

 

Her gaze washed over Constance, and for the first time she found her eyes drawn to the ugly scar on her friend’s cheek. Anne had obviously noticed it immediately, but she had done her best not to show any reaction. Her poor friend needed neither pity nor curious looks. 

 

“It must have hurt…” she whispered, her fingers gently touching Constance’s scar.

 

“It did, but in truth, I was too focused on Athos and… the others to pay attention.”

 

“You’re so courageous…”

 

Constance shrugged awkwardly.  “I have more freedom than you do, so I can afford to be bolder. But… now my husband wants to take me home…”

 

“I won’t permit it...not if I have anything to say about it.”

 

Constance gave her a grateful look.

 

“Constance, I cannot imagine my life without Aramis. Would you be able to carry on after d’Artagnan’s--if he--” Anne could not finish her sentence. 

 

“If I were free to despair… I really don’t know. However if I had a child with him, I would do everything in my power to raise that child in a way that would make d’Artagnan proud. So often he does something, then wonders what his father would have thought of his actions. So, Anne… you have a reason to fight. For your son. For Aramis’ son. He will never know the true identity of his father, but he has a mother who loves him and who won’t allow him to become a spoiled replica of the King.”

 

Anne slowly nodded. Constance was right. She had a duty to her son. To Aramis’ son. But… that thought did nothing to soothe her pain. 

 

_ What if I am too weak to be a good mother? _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to post so dramatic chapter on the New Year but the delay has already been long.
> 
> But still I wish you Happy New Year and I’m grateful that you read that story! Thank you so much.
> 
> Know, that I treasure all your reviews!
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my Beta - Riversidewren!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos POV

Athos

 

_ Aramis kneels on the wooden cart. The gun is aimed at his head. Suddenly the shot is fired, and his friend falls forward. It is too dark to see blood… and Athos’ heart is shattering into a million useless shards. It is beyond repair.  _

 

This scene was repeated mercilessly each time he touched the edge of. consciousness.

 

He recalled what he had said to Porthos. And he knew he had been right. The bullet that had killed Aramis was really only a formality. The Aramis he knew had already died.

 

Athos knew exactly when it had happened. It had not occurred when the whip cut the medic’s flesh--nor when the hot iron had been pressed into his skin. It had happened when he had been made to plead for the abuse. Duval had not seemed to be interested in men--or in Aramis particularly--but he had been interested in humiliating the musketeer. He had known Aramis’ worst fear, and had forced him to beg to be abused….for Athos’ sake. 

 

Athos felt as if he had delivered the lethal blow himself...as if Aramis had been dead by his hand long before the bullet had actually hit his head. 

 

A jolt of pain unexpectedly shot through the musketeer’s body. He fought to stifle a moan. 

 

“Easy, Athos… breathe through the pain.” The voice was so far away...too distant to be recognized. 

 

Something cold touched his face, and a drop of water teased his parched lips. 

 

“Mis!” he moaned. 

 

A muffled sob was the only answer he received. Then a strong hand lifted his head a bit, and a cup was put to his lips. 

 

“Drink. Slowly. It will help with the fever and the pain.” The person who was not Aramis was doing his best to be reassuring. 

 

He drank. It was bitter and awful, just as Aramis’ draughts usually were.

 

“Aramis?”  he whispered. He needed to hear his brother’s voice. He was not sure why that need had become so desperate. 

 

“Sleep, Athos. You need to rest,” came the reply. The voice sounded so sad.

 

“I need Aramis!” he protested.

 

A sob.

Silence. 

 

Athos struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids would not obey him.

 

_ What’s wrong with me? Am I dying? What is happening?  _

 

“Aramis!”

 

Steps. Someone left, silently closing the door. 

 

“Mis…” Athos mumbled pleadingly. 

 

“Shh….you’ll be fine…” The voice was younger. It was a familiar voice, but not the one he needed to hear. 

 

“Where’s Mis?”

“Not here…”

“Why?”

“He’s busy.”

“When will he back?”

“As soon as he can.”

“I need him…”

“I know.” He felt a timid, but soothing, touch on his cheek.

 

“You’re not him…” Athos whispered, disappointment overwhelming him.

 

_ Aramis! He had returned. He was finally here. He stood in the doorway for a moment,  then in two quick paces was at the bedside. _

 

_ Athos relaxed a bit as Aramis sat down on the stool next to the bed. The medic looked worn out. He took his hat off, and Athos gasped. The whole back of the hat was covered in crimson, and Aramis’ hair was sticky with blood.  _

 

_ Memories crashed down on him.  _

 

_ “You’re dead!” he cried.  _

 

_ Aramis smiled serenely.  _

_ “Yes. It’s better this way, brother. I could not remain as I was… you of all people should know that once one crosses a certain border, it is impossible to carry on… Now I can say that I miss you. Back then, the only thing I missed was the end of the pain. They did break me… but to be honest, I’m glad they finished me off. So… don’t feel guilty… I’m fine. I’m truly fine.” _

 

_ “NO!!!!! Aramis!!!!” _

 

_ Athos desperately seized Aramis’ hand, but his fingers passed right throughout it. _

 

_ “No… no… no…! I cannot… I cannot… without you, I cannot!!” _

 

_ “You have to, Athos. You’re strong…” _

 

_ Athos felt tears slowly trailing down his cheeks. His heart felt so hollow… so dead. _

 

_ “I’m not strong… you were my strength!” _

 

_ “Now Porthos is your strength.” _

 

_ “He cannot stand to be in the same room with me. And he’s right to feel that way. I was the one who murdered you!” _

 

_ “No. You are blameless in all of this.” Aramis bent down and gently kissed Athos’ forehead.  _

_ A goodbye.  _

_ A benediction.  _

 

_ “I need you! Don’t go!” _

 

_ “Shhh…. Athos… hush… brother” _

 

Athos opened his eyes, and D’Artagnan immediately leaned over him.

 

“Athos? I need you to drink this. Doctor Lemay left it for you.”

 

_ Lemay… the name sounded familiar. Now that Aramis is dead, they had to find a physician for me. I failed to protect my brother… I don’t deserve to live. _

 

He turned his head, evading the cup that d’Artagnan tried to touch to his lips. A few drops of the draught wet his cheek. 

 

“Athos…” d’Artagnan voice was pleading.

 

_ But Porthos is not here. He hates me...and he has every right to do so. I killed his brother… _

 

_ Aramis is dead. _

 

This thought was like turning a knife in a wound. A searing pain. A pain which would accompany Athos every day for the rest of his life--until his end. He could only hope that the time of his death would not be too far away.

 

What little strength he had left his body, and he went limp, closing his eyes. He heard a panicked gasp, and felt D’Artagnan’s fingers searching for his pulse. A sigh of relief followed when the Gascon found it. 

 

_ You should not be so relieved, my friend. I’m your brother’s murderer.  _

 

Thomas’ face, covered in blood, appeared before his eyes--then slowly transformed into the face of his Musketeer brother.

 

_ One more brother that I’ve killed.  _

 

_ “Athos?”, Aramis nonchalantly leaned against the door frame, light dancing in his eyes. He looked much younger--and much happier. His hair was longer, and bound in the way that had been his custom before the disaster of Savoy.  _

 

_ “You’re an inconsiderate, selfish boy--and if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit it,” Aramis said, his manner now serious. “We cannot just leave Porthos and d’Artagnan on their own. They need you alive. You cannot just abandon them in order to follow me.” _

 

_ “You left!” Athos said accusingly.  _

 

_ “To be honest, a bullet in the head did not give me much say in the matter.” _

 

_ “To be honest?! You are being anything but truthful. You wanted to die!” _

 

_ “Do you really think so little of me? You think that I would have, of my own free will, left my brother at mercy of his captors?” _

 

_ “You said your farewell to me!” _

 

_ “Not for the first time.” _

 

_ “But for the last. And that is what counts!” Athos did not attempt to hide his anger and bitterness. _

 

_ Aramis’ smile vanished, and the marksman slowly approached him.  _

 

_ “Forgive me, brother, please… forgive me for abandoning you in your hour of need.” His voice was full of remorse and guilt.  _

 

_ “No, Aramis. Death is unforgivable. No one gave you permission to leave this earth without us,” he replied harshly.  _

 

_ The Spaniard bent his head in despair.  _

 

_ After a silence filled with grief, he said softly, “Take care of Porthos…” _

 

_ “No. That was your job--and you’ve failed him, because no one will do it for you!” _

 

_ Aramis nodded, then vanished. The air was thick with guilt. _

 

_ In a fit of fury, Athos shouted for Aramis, desperately wanting to stop him. To force his friend to wait for him.  _

 

_ It was like losing him all over again. _

 

He launched himself towards the door but someone caught hold of him. He desperately struggled to get free, but darkness finally took him. 

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos 

 

He sat at their empty table, nursing a bottle of wine that tasted like acid. He had needed an escape from Athos’ desperate calls for their deceased brother. He knew he had to be strong for Athos and d’Artagnan. Providing Athos survived… 

 

Treville had brought the royal physician to the garrison, but the man had not promised anything more than his predecessor had. He had left a few draughts with some detailed instructions. D’Artagnan promised to follow them meticulously, although Porthos knew that the Gascon should rest soon. When that time came, he would take his place at Athos’ bedside. Porthos was determined that they would not lose another brother.

 

He heard a desperate cry for Aramis, and stood up, ready to take a quick walk to the stables…. anywhere far enough away that he would not have to listen to Athos’ calls. But just after the swordsman’s shout, he heard d’Artagnan calling for him. Porthos ran upstairs and threw the door open. When he saw d’Artagnan supporting Athos, he wasted no time in lunging towards his friends. He guessed that Athos, who was clearly in the grip of a fever, had probably left his bed and tried to escape the room. Suddenly Athos went limp under their hands. Porthos caught him, and laid him on the bed. D’Artagnan frantically checked for the swordsman’s pulse. He relaxed a few moment later, and nodded reassuringly.

 

“He’s burning up,” Porthos mumbled. 

 

“He was conscious for a moment--conscious enough to refuse the draught,” d’Artagnan blurted out. “Then he just passed out.”

 

Porthos nodded grimly. “We need to clean his wounds. I’ll hold him steady while you tend to the injuries.” 

 

_ I’m not letting you go, Athos. _

 

D’Artagnan set to work. He redressed several wounds before going to work on the badly infected gash. Porthos stoically bore the foul odor which usually made him sick. More than once he caught himself waiting for Aramis to come and take over.

 

Athos was too obtunded to need much attention from Porthos. From time to time, he made a feeble attempt to avoid the pain, but most of the time he simply lay still, his breath only occasionally hitching. Porthos could barely stand seeing him like this. 

 

“Should we fetch Lemay?” d’Artagnan asked. 

 

“I’ll send for him when we’re done.”

 

“I can go,” d’Artagnan said hastily.

 

“You want to see Constance.” Porthos said flatly. He could not blame the lad for taking the chance to escape the silent vigil that was likely to end in sorrow. Moreover, if Constance decided to leave the grieving Queen alone, she would probably need d’Artagnan. “I can’t blame you. Go ahead, I’ll take care of him. You need a break.”

 

D’Artagnan finished winding the last bandage. He was headed towards the exit when there was a sudden knock on the door. 

 

The Gascon readied his dagger and opened the door. One of the other musketeers, a man named Paul, entered. He gave the dagger a wide berth.

 

“Porthos, there is a boy at the gates. He swears that he has an important message for you.”

 

The big man nodded, and headed for the gate. D’Artagnan followed close behind, having asked Paul to stay with Athos. The big man understood the Gascon’s anxiety. 

 

A frightened little boy stood near the gate, nervously watching the musketeers on duty.

 

“Monsieur Porthos?” he asked. “The lady told me that you should to go to the old warehouse near the port. The one called the Iron House. She said to tell you that you’ll find your friend there.”

 

Porthos fought the urge to detain the child and brutally interrogate him. He knew that if he frightened the boy, the child would simply run away, and they would lose any chance to get more information. 

 

“Who told you to come here?” Porthos growled.

 

“A woman wearing man’s clothes. She told me that mentioning a forget-me-not would make everything clear, Monsieur!”

 

“Milady!” Porthos hissed. The child took a step back, and the big man tossed him some money. He realized that d’Artagnan was not standing beside him anymore. The Gascon was already on his way to the stables, shouting that they needed two horses immediately. 

 

Porthos found Calbert, and ordered him to stay with Athos. At this point, the man was the closest thing to a medic that they had.

 

A few minutes later, the two musketeers were galloping through narrow streets of Paris, heading towards the port. 

 

Porthos’ thoughts were completely occupied with the one name that was running through his brain. He refused to consider what might be waiting for them.When they finally reached the warehouse, Porthos stormed inside. It was pitch dark. He heard d’Artagnan strike a spark. A  moment later, the trembling gleam of a candle cut through the darkness. 

 

The warehouse was nearly empty, although a few abandoned items lay near the walls. 

 

“Is it a trap?” d’Artagnan asked in a low tone.

 

It seemed unlikely. Milady had recently been working with them.

 

Porthos shook his head. He was trying to reign in the despair gripping his heart when he saw it--a human shape curled up in the corner. In a few strides, he was there. As he squatted down, his knees nearly buckled. He gently swept aside the rags which covered Aramis’ body. His brother lay on his side, his face deathly pale. A few drops of dried blood were clung to his lips. 

 

Aramis was wearing a set of black clothes which clearly were not his. Milady must have discovered the plot to use his dead body against those whom he had loved. They could not stay here any longer.

 

Porthos knew he should think about setting a trap for their enemies, but all he could do was gently caress his brother’s cold cheek.

 

The big man carefully scooped Aramis’ broken body into his arms. He felt as if his heart was shattering, and was not sure why he was still breathing. His heart should have stopped when his brother’s had. He should have known the exact moment when Aramis had died, but he had felt nothing. 

 

_ Did I just imagine the bond between us? But it’s not important now. I’ve lost him… Christ… why have you taken him from me?! You have everyone you want… I… I cannot lose him and remain alone… remain sane… without him… _

 

He heard d’Artagnan’s muffled sobs, but ignored them, slowly making his way to the exit. 

 

He was grateful to Milady that she had given him the chance to bury Aramis as a hero with an untarnished name...and yet he hated her when Aramis’ head lolled on his arm. He had not yet seen the wound which took his brother from him. He had no desire to search for it right now, but he guessed that Aramis’ blood, and possibly his brain matter, would leave their traces on his vest. 

 

He did not let d’Artagnan help him when he mounted his horse. He adjusted Aramis’ body in order to shield him under his cloak. It would be better for Aramis not to be seen in those clothes. The material was fine. Probably silk--the clothes of a nobleman...

 

Porthos did not remember much from their journey back to the garrison. He tried to keep from crying openly. Not yet. 

  
  


He left his horse and headed towards Aramis’ room. Nobody dared to try to stop him. He gently lowered his precious burden onto the bed. 

 

How many times had he done this before? He desperately hoped that Aramis would wake up and scold his brother for carrying him like a young bride. 

 

“Mis…” he sobbed, staring at his brother’s pale face. 

 

He took his cold hand in his. 

 

Despair. 

Grief. 

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to kill.

He wanted to… have his brother back.

He would give everything for that.

 

He could not stand looking at his lifeless face, so he sat on the bed and took Aramis in his arms. He had done this many times in order to comfort his brother when he was in pain or in the grip of a high fever. 

 

_ This will be the last time I’ll get to hold him like this, so I just want to pretend that he’s still alive. Before long I will have to clean him up and prepare him for his burial. He should wear his favorite leathers and his blue cloak… the privilege of a musketeer…  _

 

His anguish brought forth a muffled scream from his throat.

 

He hid his face in Aramis’ hair and sobbed desperately. He felt like his very soul was dying. 

 

He was crying and rocking Aramis when he felt it.

 

_ I must be going mad. _

 

The warmth of an exhaled breath tingled his neck.

 

He held his own breath and waited. Then he felt it again. 

 

“Aramis???!!!!”  With a shaking hand, he gently lifted his brother’s limp head.

 

“Mis?!” He quickly brushed his brother’s hair out of the way, and let his palm linger at the marksman’s lips for a few seconds. Then he felt it again - a soft exhale. 

 

_ What an idiot I am! I was grieving when I should have been getting him medical help! _

 

“I need a physician!! NOW!” he yelled, hoping that someone could hear him. He was relieved to hear a shout of acknowledgement, followed by quick steps on the stairs. 

 

D’Artagnan ran into the room. 

 

“He’s breathing! He’s alive!” Porthos was still barely able to believe it.

 

D’Artagnan lit some candles, then kindled a fire in the fireplace. He also ordered someone to bring both hot and cold water. While they were waiting, he started to undress Aramis. Porthos was still shaking, and did not feel up to the task. 

 

D’Artagnan froze when he saw the bandages that crisscrossed Aramis’ chest and limbs. 

 

“What happened?” The Gascon looked shocked.

 

Porthos’ hand ghosted over Aramis’ head. He found no evidence of a bullet wound.

 

“I should have known that Athos’ story was a lie. Aramis wasn’t shot. I swear I will kill that woman!!!” he growled.

 

“If Milady feigned his execution, she saved his life,” d’Artagnan murmured. 

 

He started to cut off the bandages, revealing the carefully stitched wounds on the marksman’s body. Porthos felt ill when he saw the various gashes, welts, and burns that covered his brother’s skin. 

 

There was a knock on the door, and a timid Lemay came in.

 

“I was on my way to check on Athos when your man found me,” he explained. 

 

“Please--you have to save him!” Porthos begged. 

 

Lemay paled when he took a closer look at the wounded man. 

 

“He was tortured,” he whispered. 

 

“Are you suggesting that makes him less worthy of your help?!” Porthos growled. 

 

“No, no,” the doctor said hastily. “I’ve just never treated someone who has been tortured.”

 

“What about Athos? You took care of him!”  d’Artagnan blurted out. 

 

“His case is different,” the doctor said carefully. “His wounds could have come from a battle. They are nothing like this.”

 

Porthos did not reply. He held Aramis in a semi-upright position in order to allow Lemay to examine his wounds. 

 

The doctor gently probed a large laceration on the musketeer’s arm. Aramis let out a soft moan.  Lemay froze. It seemed as if he wanted to speak, but Porthos shook his head to silence him, then started a soft whispered litany to calm his brother.  After several minutes, he motioned to the doctor to continue. 

 

Aramis tried to evade the stranger’s hands, entrusting himself to Porthos. The reaction was so natural that Porthos nearly came undone. He kept his composure with difficulty.

 

The dark skinned musketeer murmured platitudes into Aramis’ ear. He was deeply grateful for the opportunity to soothe his wounded brother. 

 

He felt Aramis stiffen under the doctor’s ministrations. It was wonderful to feel the life in his brother’s body. He finally could not restrain himself, and placed a gentle kiss in Aramis’ hair. 

 

_ Lemay’s presence be damned!  _

 

It took the doctor a long time to deal with Aramis’ injuries. Finally, he redressed the last wound and sighed. He was clearly shaken. 

 

“I don’t like the way he is breathing…”  Lemay murmured.

“He was suffocated by the smoke,” Porthos explained, his voice shaking. “It was far worse…”

 

“That explains much.” Lemay seemed a bit relieved.

 

“Will he live?!” Porthos’ voice was close to despair.

 

“His wounds are not mortal. It appears that they were tended to and sutured in time. None of them appear to be infected, which is promising, but his injuries are numerous. He lost quite a bit of blood, and he’s severely dehydrated. It is absolutely essential that he drink as much as possible. You will need to monitor his injuries to make sure that they do not worsen--and if anything happens that seems worrisome, send for me immediately. He has a fair chance of surviving, but we must be extremely careful.”

 

“Thank you,” Porthos whispered. 

 

There was so much more that he dared not hope yet.

 

“I’m going to go check on Athos, but I’ll be back. I’ll leave some herbs for both of them,” Lemay said.  Then he left, closing the door behind him.

 

Porthos continued to hold Aramis in a upright position.  D’Artagnan placed a cup of water within reach of his hand. Porthos took it, and glanced at the lad.

 

“You should go to Athos,” the dark skinned musketeer murmured. The Gascon nodded, and left.

 

Porthos knew that he should lay Aramis on the bed, but he could not find the will to do so.  So he held his brother close, trying to remain mindful of his various injuries. Still, he could not be sure that he was not causing his beloved brother discomfort. 

 

Aramis shivered. His eyelids fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes. They were cold and distant.  Porthos’ heart ached when he saw the remoteness in his brother’s gaze.

 

The marksman blinked slowly.

 

“You’re safe. You’re home,” the dark skinned musketeer whispered. He reached for the cup, and touched it to Aramis’ lips. 

 

“You have to drink, brother,” he whispered. Aramis turned his head, trying to avoid the cup. However, when the liquid touched his parched lips, he could not restrain himself any longer, and gulped the water down.

 

He drained the cup. As he did so, he stared at Porthos. His eyes showed no trace of warmth or familiarity. It was sort of look that he reserved for his foes, not his friends. 

 

_ Does he recognize me?  _

 

“Mis…” Porthos whispered brokenly. 

“Athos?” Aramis asked coldly.

“He’s at the garrison. He’s safe.”

“Milady?”

“I haven’t seen her, but she sent a boy to tell me where you were. D’Artagnan is with Athos. Constance and the Queen are at the palace. Treville is there too.”

 

Aramis nodded slowly, and a lone tear slowly trailed down his cheek. He closed his eyes, but allowed Porthos to give him another cup of  water. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> I am so sorry for the the delay and I cannot promise nothing else that this story will be continued and completed when its time comes (not soon).


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

Treville

 

Fatigue was creeping into his thoughts. He was trying to focus on Lemay’s notes and analysis, but it was becoming more and more challenging with each minute that passed. The report was far more disorganized than the ones he was used to receiving from his men. As his thoughts began to wander, he found that he could not forget the look of complete devastation on Porthos’ face. His musketeer was sitting outside in the cold night air, keeping a lonely vigil in honor of his brother.

 

_ His dead brother. _

_ Aramis is dead. _

 

Treville knew that every soldier died--or retired. Musketeers did not die easily, but these days the graveyard had more inhabitants than the garrison barracks. Still, it was difficult to accept the fact that after countless narrow escapes, his best marksman had finally met his end. He understood d’Artagnan’s naive hope, but he was too seasoned a soldier to share it. 

 

_ No one is invincible. Even the best soldier can be brought to his knees. Even the best end up getting killed. _

 

There was a subtle knock at the door, and the confused Captain realized that he must have fallen asleep.

 

_ My body clearly needs rest. I’m not young enough to be able to ignore my wounds the way I used to. _

 

He readied a dagger and opened the door, then lowered his weapon when he saw Milady.

 

She hastily ducked into the room. In lieu of a greeting, she handed him a sealed letter. He raised an eyebrow when he saw that the seal belonged to the head of Spanish intelligence.

 

“It contains an explicit order for Rochefort to return to Spain,” she explained.

 

To obtain such a letter was an impressive achievement. “How did you get it?!”

 

“Aramis retrieved it. How, I’m not sure.”

 

“Aramis?!”

 

“I had to leave him at the port--in the Iron Warehouse. I sent a message to the garrison regarding his whereabouts, so they should have found him by now.” 

 

He shot her an accusing look, but she merely shrugged. “I had no choice. He was in a bad way, and was unable to walk.”

 

Everything suddenly became clear. “You were the one who shot him?!” 

 

“There was no other way. If you already know about the fake execution, Athos must have been rescued.”  There was an unspoken question in her words, but Treville did not plan to make things easy for her. 

 

She hesitated for a moment, clearly unwilling to betray her interest in the swordsman’s fate. Finally, she spoke, her voice cold and measured. 

 

“Does he live?”

 

He waited for a few seconds, then took pity on her. “His wounds are infected. Lemay is treating him.”

 

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

 

“He has successfully treated the Dauphin several times. There is no reason not to trust him.”

 

She sighed, but said nothing more on that topic. Putting on her gloves, she said,

“I should go. The King needs me.”

 

“I plan to ask for an audience. Do you think you can convince the King to grant me one?” the Captain asked. 

 

“The King doesn’t care to have his mistress meddling in political situations--but if the opportunity arises, I’ll speak up on your behalf, Captain.” She gave him a brief curtsy, then silently left.

 

Treville glanced at the sealed letter in his hand. Was it enough to bring Rochefort down? Perhaps not, but it should be enough to provoke a reaction from Rochefort--a reaction which might cause the comte to betray himself. The confrontation would be dangerous, and Captain would need his men. The Red Guard could not be trusted.

 

_ While Richelieu was alive, the Red Guard never turned against the King. They were certainly guilty of many crimes that were committed by order of the Cardinal, but they never tried to attack the King. Even the assassination attempt on the Queen was carried out by mercenaries. _

 

Treville wrote up an official request for an audience, and left it in the hands of the King’s secretary. He stressed that the reason for the audience was of the utmost importance, but his words seemed to make no impression on the man, who appeared tired and ill. The secretary took the paper from him and gave him a slight bow. For a moment, the Captain was sure that the man was going to end up face down on the floor. However, he finally managed to regain his balance.

 

The man blinked, and seemed surprised that Treville was still standing in front of him. 

“I do not have the power to grant you an audience, but I will pass on your request.”

 

“Thank you. For the safety of France, it is very important that I speak with the King.” There was no gratitude in the musketeer’s solemn voice. 

 

The secretary was probably used to hearing that each and every request for an audience was critically important. If the request was not granted, Treville would just talk to the King without being invited. However, he preferred to be able to arrange it so that Rochefort was in the room.

 

The Musketeer Captain left the Palace and rode to the garrison. He hoped that Milady’s message had reached his men.

 

_ If Aramis was able to obtain the letter, he should be still alive. No, actually, if it were other man in the regiment, I could draw this conclusion--but Aramis has the irritating habit of ignoring his own wounds as long as he is needed. Despite this, he always seems to pull through.  Still, having been left wounded without medical care could not have been good for him. _

 

He reached the gates. The musketeers on duty stood at attention when they saw him. He nodded, then gave them the order to be at ease. Entering the garrison, he tossed the reins to the stable boy.

 

“I’ll need the horse again soon,” he told the youngster. “By the way, do know where I might find Aramis?” It was likely that the boy had seen where they had taken the wounded man.

 

“Porthos took him to their quarters, Sir.”

 

He nodded. So they were in either Porthos’ or Aramis’ room.

 

Treville knocked on the door, then cautiously opened it. Porthos was sitting on the chair next to the bed where Aramis lay. The marksman seemed to be in a deep sleep, and was probably unconscious. 

 

The big man showed no reaction to his entrance. 

 

“Porthos?” 

 

The dark skinned musketeer slowly turned his head in order to look in the direction of his commander’s voice. He was pale, and his eyes were red.  Treville suddenly realized that he could not be sure that Aramis was still alive, and his heart sank. The marksman was covered with thick blankets, and lay completely still. It was impossible to say if he was still breathing.

 

“How is he?” he asked, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

 

“Lemay said he should survive.” There was an angry edge to Porthos’ voice. Instead of being soothed by the good news, Treville felt himself becoming more anxious.

 

“Will he recover?” he asked abruptly.

 

“Lemay said nothing about any permanent impairments.”

 

“So what is the problem?” 

 

Anguish was suddenly replaced by fury. 

“He regained consciousness for a moment--and … they had hurt him. Deeply.”

 

Treville closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, fixing his gaze on Porthos. 

“You’ll make him whole again. Milady enabled his escape, but he was the one who was able to obtain some documents. Very important documents. So he was not only able to understand the situation, but also to able to deploy his wits in a brilliant game of persuasion.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I will need you for my audience with the King. The King has especially requested your presence. You and Athos are to be commended for saving the Queen.”

 

“As far as I know, Athos is in no condition to be anywhere except his bed,” Porthsos growled. “D’Artagnan is with him now.”

 

“I know. That’s why I want you and d’Artagnan to be there. I expect that our comte may still be nervous and unpredictable, and I understand that Aramis is in no condition to be with us.”

 

“Lemay emphasized that his condition is fragile, and that we must be careful not to worsen it!”  Porthos was ready to defend his brother from his commander if necessary.

 

Treville nodded, then left. He believed that Porthos had the ability to help Aramis recover. In all honesty, if the dark skinned musketeer failed, there was no one else who would be able to save the marksman.

 

D’Artagnan greeted him with a smile.

“Have you seen Aramis, sir?” he asked immediately.

 

“Yes, but he’s unconscious. How is Athos?”

The swordsman was obviously still in the grip of a fever. 

 

“Lemay cleaned his wound again, then left a new balm. He seemed disturbed by Athos’ condition.” D’Artagnan sighed, anxiously watching his mentor.“But he does seem to be better now. His nightmares seem to have let up.”  

 

Treville observed his lieutenant for a few minutes, then bid his leave. He felt useless in the face of his men’s grave injuries.

 

He hoped to finally get some rest. However, once he came to the palace, he was surprised to find that his request for an audience had been granted. He was to meet with the King in an hour. He sent for his men immediately, and made himself presentable. 

 

He entered the audience room flanked by Porthos and d’Artagnan. He was concerned when he saw the Queen sitting at her husband’s side. The woman looked incredibly fragile. He suspected that makeup had been used to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, as well as the pallor of her skin. She looked beautiful, but so sad. Constance stood behind her throne, and when Treville’s eyes met hers, he understood that she was ready to defend the Queen with her life. He was very grateful for her presence. 

 

Rochefort stood near the throne. There was a smirk on his face, and a challenge in his eyes.

 

“Treville, I hope that you have managed to apprehend the men who dared to abduct my wife?”  Louis asked the question in an oddly detached manner, with no hint of fire in his voice. 

 

“I have a few suspects. However, as they reside in the palace, I need your permission to search their rooms. My men discovered that a gunsmith’s shop served as a communications center for the bandits. Orders and reports were found there.  Those documents hint that the Spanish and Savoy ambassadors here in France are actually working for Spanish Intelligence. The only problem is that we don’t have enough proof. We did manage to intercept a letter---actually, it is likely an order-- that bears Vargas’s seal. It may be important.”

 

Louis gave him a bored look. “So, did you read it?”

 

Treville shook his head. “No, Sire--but I have an idea of what may be inside. I decided that it would be best to present it to you with the seal intact.” He bowed, and passed the letter to the King. Louis glanced at the seal, then broke it. He read the document and paled.

 

“Rochefort! What does this mean?!” he shouted. He waved the letter at the comte. The man obviously could not read it from such a distance, but he nonetheless paled visibly.

 

_ The King didn’t immediately issue an order to have Rochefort arrested. That does not bode well.  _

 

_ Rochefort’s reaction so far has not betrayed him. _

 

“Sire, I don’t know…” the comte replied, appearing confused and dismayed.

 

“Rochefort name was specifically mentioned by the Queen’s captors.  They named him as their leader,” Treville said.

 

There was a moment of silence

 

The musketeers waited for the order to be given to arrest the comte. The King was staring at his Prime Minister, his eyes wide with disbelief. Constance shifted her position in order to stand slightly in front of the throne, ready to act if necessary.

 

“These accusations are ridiculous. It’s obvious that they are trying to frame me.” Rochefort remained composed, his voice still calm.

 

“Read it!” King motioned to the comte to take the letter from his hand.

 

_ This is not good. Rochefort is way too close to the King.  _

 

Rochefort turned to the Queen. “So, Your Majesty--you asked Vargas to help you escape to Spain after the musketeers failed in their attempt to assist you?”

 

“No, Rochefort,” she answered firmly. “I did not try to escape to Spain. You had me kidnapped.”

 

The King interrupted them. “My Queen, you told me that you were unconscious most of the time.”

 

“Most of the time, Sire--not all of the time.

 

Rochefort gave her a triumphant look. “So, your Majesty, you cannot really be sure of  what you saw or heard while you were in a drugged state.”

 

He approached her throne, and she cringed, nearly melting into her chair to avoid him.

 

“I demand an investigation. The men who have dared to falsely accuse me must be punished.” Rochefort spoke with emotion, his blue eyes indignant. 

 

“This is a grave accusation.”  The King began to speak, but he halted, and seemed to to have trouble focusing. “However, I believe there are enough grounds, Treville, to issue such an order.”

 

Treville knew he was failing. He saw the despair in the Queen’s eyes, the silent plea for him to defeat Rochefort once and for all. The poor woman was terrified, and the comte was obviously aware of that fact. 

 

“Sire, an accusation of high treason must not be made lightly,” the Captain replied.

 

“And by accusing the Prime Minister, you’re putting the entire country at risk. So, who’s committing high treason now, Treville?” snarled Rochefort. He turned to the King. “I warned you once before, Sire-- this man is an enemy of the state. I demand that Treville and his man be placed under immediate arrest!” As he spoke, he took a step closer to Anne. Constance tried to position herself between them, but failed. 

 

“Treville agreed to help your wife escape,” Rochefort blurted out. “Perhaps I was wrong to assume that returning to Spain was her aim. I may have been mistaken. I understand, Sire, that you want to give your traitorous wife another chance. I am truly amazed and humbled by your mercy, but I must insist that this man--the man with whom your wife tried to elope--be given the death penalty!”

 

“He’s lying!” Anne stood up, her voice trembling. “Rochefort is the man who kidnapped me--and raped me! Arrest him!”

 

Before anyone could make a move, Rochefort struck. The blade was aimed at Anne. Treville lunged towards them, knowing that the young monarch was destined for death. However, it was not Anne who crumpled on the floor, but Constance. She lay still, the dagger buried in her chest to the hilt. 

 

Treville heard D’Artagnan’s desperate scream as the lad attacked Rochefort. At the same instant, several shots were fired. Obviously Rochefort had had his own men ready to act. 

 

The Captain dodged the blade aimed at his head, and immediately engaged his enemy. His opponent was quite skilled with a blade. Treville knew that he needed to get rid of him quickly. He could see Rochefort making an escape. Porthos was desperately trying to follow him, despite the four men who were determined to stop him. 

 

D’Artagnan fought with two other men who were trying to reach the monarchs. Anne was on her knees, cradling Constance in her arms. Meanwhile, the King seemed to be frozen on his throne. 

 

“Protect the King!” the Captain shouted. As his sword ran through his opponent, his wound protested at the sudden movement. It was an especially inconvenient time, as another enemy immediately attacked him. The man wore the uniform of a Red Guard, but Treville had never seen him. His opponent managed to cut the Captain’s arm with his first lunge, and was immediately on guard once again. He exactly knew how Musketeer’s Captain had been weakened, and used it to his advantage, forcing Treville into a very painful defense.

 

The man’s blade slid over the musketeer’s, but the pain slowed down the Captain enough for him to be slashed by his opponent’s main gauche. Treville knew that he had to end the fight quickly in order to have a chance at surviving, so he went on the attack with a vengeance. His opponent wanted to tire the Captain out, and he was succeeding as long as Treville had to focus solely on his defense. Suddenly the man froze, and dropped to his knees, revealing the dagger that was buried in his back. 

 

D’Artagnan gave his Captain a quick salute. He was the only person in the room besides Treville who was still standing. The men who had tried to stop the musketeers lay dead or dying.

 

“Fetch Lemay!” Anne cried desperately. 

“D’Artagnan, go!” Treville ordered. He knelt near Constance. 

 

The redhead lay unconscious, all colour drained from her face. The Captain touched her neck, and sighed with relief when he felt a rapid pulse. 

 

_ She fought well… _

_ These are the only words that come to mind, but she did not just fight well. She just gave her life for the Queen… the wound is probably fatal... _


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

There had been a time when the steady warm presence at his side had soothed his pain. There was a time when he had accepted the comfort offered by touch--or by a soft voice murmuring stories in order to dispel the threat of silence. But this time, it was not to be so.

 

Aramis lay motionless. He was too tired to move. It hurt to keep his eyes open. However, he was denied the silken oblivion of unconsciousness. He was merely existing, devoid of any energy and barely having the strength to take in a breath. From time to time, he was forced into an upright position, and a cup was held to his lips. He was not thirsty, but each time he was offered liquid, his body greedily consumed it. He felt as dry as a parchment, but the act of drinking was truly exhausting. His mind told him that his body’s reactions were probably natural for his condition, but the hollowness he felt could not be so easily explained. 

 

He felt Porthos gently squeezing his arm.

 

“Mis, I must go. The King has summoned me. I’ve asked Calbert to stay with you. Please let him give you some herbs and water...and don’t go anywhere!” His friend’s voice trembled a little. 

 

The marksman wanted to open his eyes and answer his brother’s plea, but he had no strength to do so. He felt a hasty kiss on his forehead, and then a hand gently caressed his face. 

 

“I’ll be back soon...and you’d better be here.”

 

Porthos reluctantly left, and the emptiness attacked the marksman with double force. Aramis wanted to curl up on the bed. He had the urge to check to see if any concealed weapons were within reach of his hand, but the void seemed to have sucked in the last bits of energy and will that were left in his body. As time went by, the void was consuming him in a slow, but extremely painful manner. The sense of hollow helplessness seemed to be extinguishing every thought with cold efficiency.

 

Suddenly Aramis felt a liquid on his lips. The position of his body must have changed, because this time he was not able to drink. The spilled water tickled his chin and neck. 

 

Indistinguishable words spoken in an exasperated tone followed. Then he was moved into more of a prone position. The owner of the voice probably had remained in the room, but Aramis could not be sure of that. He might have left--or been consumed by the void as well.

 

A few times more water dripped from his mouth. He was unable to swallow, and the water seemed to find its way into every place except his throat. He had a nagging feeling that he should do something about that before he died, but to acknowledge such a thought meant to focus on it for a moment. As that degree of attention was impossible, the thoughts merely floated through his mind before they faded into oblivion.

 

Suddenly he was cold. Hands touched his naked body, and he froze. Everything in him screamed to fight back and to escape, but his body could not move. 

 

_ Maybe I’m dead--and this is the punishment I’ve received for my sins. Am I doomed to have my body slowly rot while my soul remains trapped inside?! _

 

Even if he had possessed the ability to move, fear would have paralyzed him. He found himself adrift in a void full of horrific memories. He was nothing--not even a plaything. He was just darkness--an empty space filled with pain and terror and bitter cold. 

 

He remained there, his consciousness slowly dissolving into hurt. 

 

_ Porthos.... _

_ A name.  _

_ A name which used to mean a lot to me. _

_ A name that brings up the shadow of memories which are not frozen or terrifying. _

_ The past. _

_ Why am I calling out this name so loudly? _

 

The pain that shot through his body broke into his thoughts.

 

“Damn it, Aramis! Listen to me or you’ll regret it!” The voice was angry and desperate--and somehow familiar.

 

_ Anger and desperation--two things commonly heard in the voices of musketeers. _

 

“Well, if you really prefer to pretend to sleep while your Porthos is dying, carry on!”

 

The words slowly sank into the marksman’s brain.

 

_ Porthos dying?! _

_ Those two words should not be spoken together. No… _

_ And I thought I couldn’t possibly hurt any more… _

 

“He may need you before he dies!” the furious voice continued.

 

All Aramis wanted at this moment was to die himself. To fall into the abyss. Not to hear the horrible news, not to be aware of what was happening...

 

He could never pretend not to be lost before… but without Porthos, he was more lost than he had ever thought possible.

 

_ I will never abandon you! _

 

The words he had spoken so many years ago hit him with a new force. He might be dead or dying--or some sort of restless ghost or demon sent back to earth to pay for his sins---but whatever he was, his place was at Porthos’ side. 

 

His last duty.

 

The marksman did not know how he managed to get to Porthos’ room. His friend lay on the bed, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. His eyes were closed, and he looked deathly pale. Aramis took two unsteady steps, then found himself supported by someone. That person helped to lower him next to his brother.

 

The Spaniard heard himself asking what had happened, and realized that his voice sounded distant and strange.

 

“He went after Rochefort. They must have fought on the roof. Porthos was found unconscious, and it was clear that he had fallen from a height. The physician that examined him said that Porthos had internal injuries, and that there was nothing he could do. He left him here.” 

 

There was fury in the voice. It probably belonged to one of his fellow musketeers, but Aramis could not bring himself to take his eyes from his brother’s face.

 

“I am so sorry, Aramis. It is truly a black day for all of us. When we finally find Rochefort, he’ll pay for this.”

 

_ That won’t give me Porthos back… _

 

Aramis gave a slight nod. He changed his position, kneeling on the floor so that he could lay his upper body next to Porthos. The marksman took his brother’s hand in his.

 

_ Please, let me follow him. Please… let me be with him… _

 

There was a commotion in the room. Someone was talking, but the words flowed over the marksman. He neither listened to nor comprehended what was being said. Something hovered over him. His instincts screamed at him to duck, but he remained motionless, and nothing seemed to happen. 

 

Aramis wanted to ask if the physician had given any indication that Porthos might regain consciousness before he died. But to ask the question required effort, and the question itself seemed to imply that that his friend’s death was a forgone conclusion. 

 

There was no hope left in Aramis’ heart. Neither was there any acceptance. There was only cold and pain, and both had consumed what was left of fear. 

  
  



	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

Everything happened so fast. Just when he was sure that Rochefort was immune to their accusations and that their plan was doomed to fail, the Queen made her own accusation, and all hell broke loose. 

 

It was clear that Rochefort had been prepared for any sort of confrontation. His men immediately threatened the monarchs.  He knew all too well that the musketeers would place the safety of the King and Queen above capturing a traitor.

 

Porthos left d’Artagnan near the Queen and Constance. He hoped that the redhead was still alive, but he could not be sure. As he saw Rochefort exit the room, Porthos glanced towards Treville. The Captain seemed to have the King’s defense well in hand, so Porthos ran after the comte. 

 

He ducked the first blade, then slammed his fist into the man’s face. He managed to catch the other sword with his main gauche, but it required a very challenging maneuver. His opponent was well skilled, and represented a true danger. Porthos awkwardly deflected his rapier and kicked another attacker, aiming at his knee. It was less efficient than he hoped, but it still seemed to have neutralized the man. Then the musketeer made a wild pirouette and managed to shove the other man forward, impaling him on the point of his attacker’s blade. Both men lost their balance and landed hard on the floor.

 

He then attacked his remaining opponent. The man feinted, and before Porthos could change the direction in which his sword moved, his opponent had managed to cut him. Porthos roared in fury, well aware of the head start that Rochefort now had. He put all his strength into his attack. Shocked by the musketeer’s merciless rage, the other man withdrew a few steps. Porthos backed him into a corner of the room, then rendered him unconscious by smashing his face with the pommel of his main gauche. Before the man had dropped to the floor, Porthos was running through the elegant palace corridors in search of Rochefort.

 

He soon saw an open window, and realized that the traitor must have used the rose trellis outside the window to climb down. The exposed thorns of the leafless plants tore at him, but the musketeer hoped that his gloves would protect him. They did, but his descent was not a pleasant one, and judging from the sounds of ripping material that came to his ears, his cloak had suffered some damage.

 

Finally, he was on the ground. He looked around, hoping to see some hint as to which route Rochefort had taken. It was clear that the man had not headed towards the stables. He had probably guessed that the musketeers would immediately cut off access to that area. Anticipating this move, he must have hidden a horse somewhere else on the grounds. Since Rochefort could not have possibly known at what time he would need to make his escape, he must have chosen a place where it would be easy to keep an animal for a prolonged period of time. Porthos was trying to recall the surroundings of the palace when a shot rang out. Despite knowing that it could be a trap, he headed in that direction. However, luck seemed to be at his side. He came across an injured guard lying on the ground. The man gestured at him with a spent pistol, indicating the way that Rochefort had gone. 

 

Porthos nodded, and continued on. It seemed that the guard that managed to wound to hurt the traitor. A trail of blood now made it easy to follow Rochefort.

 

Porthos left the Palace grounds. The drops of blood led him to one of the buildings. He cautiously entered. Seeing no one, he mounted the stairs that led to the roof. He paused for a moment, but quickly grasped Rochefort’s plan. If the comte crossed from roof to roof, he would reach a small convent which had a stable within its walls. Porthos knew he should pay more attention to his surroundings, but that meant moving more slowly, and he could not afford to lose any more time.

 

Finally, he managed to jump onto the wall that enclosed the old church and a small, almost forgotten convent. There was only one reason that the nuns were allowed to remain on prime real estate close to the city centre--and it had nothing to do with spirituality. The King happened to be very fond of the exquisite liquors that the women made with herbs sent to them from the royal gardens. 

 

Porthos easily regained his balance on the narrow wall, which had a slight slope. He made his way towards the main gate, where he hoped he would find a way to climb down. He was preparing to climb down near the gate when he saw bloody handprints on the wall of the church. He recalled that the church roof seemed to always be undergoing repairs. It was quite likely that there was a ladder on the other side of the roof. It was clear that Rochefort was also aware if this, especially since he had risked climbing a height of almost two to three stories. Porthos sighed and focused on his first step up.

 

The shot caught him by surprise. Pain erupted in his leg. In the next instant, his foot slipped from the small ledge that he had used to support his weight when searching for another hand grip. He lost his balance, his fingers clawing at the stones as he fell. 

 

_ Aramis! _

This was his last conscious thought.

 

Pain. It seemed to surround him, not for the first time. He was preparing to take shelter within the dark oblivion when the image of his brother came into his mind. He could not die--or lie unconscious--when his brother needed him. He forced himself to surface to consciousness, although it meant digging through the intensifying pain. He was could not localize its source, but he sensed that his pounding head and aching ribs were competing to produce the most pain.  He moaned, and felt a touch on his cheek. 

 

“Porthos?” The voice was distant, and there seemed to something terribly wrong with it. The wounded musketeer forced himself to open his eyes, and immediately was grateful for the dim light in the room. 

 

_ Concussions…. I hate them. _

 

Aramis was kneeling next to the bed. The marksman was watching him intently. He looked exhausted, the bruises on his pale face appearing almost black. Aramis should be in bed. However, it was reassuring to see him keeping vigil, even if it meant that his condition might worsen. It was impossible to keep a conscious Aramis out of a room that contained his wounded brothers. If the medic was not here Porthos would fear the worst.

 

The dark skinned musketeer felt a hand slip under his head. He moaned at the pain, and immediately felt the urge to be sick. Aramis must have guessed what was going on, because Porthos found himself facing a bucket. He hated dry heaves. It seemed wrong to feel so awful when there was no food to expel from his stomach. 

 

Aramis gently helped him to turn on his side. Porthos curled up into a ball, as that position seemed to alleviate his pain. 

 

He started to drift away, soothed by Aramis’ touch and presence. He knew he should say something, but he was too tired to resist the pull of sleep.

 

Slowly he began to resurface, and found that his head was still pounding. He was hungry, but still tormented by nausea.

 

_ Unfortunately typical for me.  _

 

He did not know how long he had slept. Something heavy lay on his palm. Porthos was not surprised to look down and see Aramis’ head.

 

The marksman opened his eyes, and Porthos remembered the questions that he should already have asked. 

 

“Rochefort?” he asked.

 

“Escaped,” came the reply. Porthos was stunned to realize that Calbert was sitting in the corner of the room.

 

_ He must be here because Aramis is too weak to take care of anyone.  _

 

“Constance?”

 

“There’s no news so far. When Lemay finishes working on her, he’ll stop by and let us know how she is doing.”

 

“The others?”

 

“No casualties so far, but I don’t know too much about their status. Do you need anything? If not, I’ll leave you with Aramis and go check on Athos.”

 

“Why am I not in his room?”

 

Calbert was acting a bit odd, but perhaps the presence of a unusually silent Aramis explained that. The musketeer cast a pleading look at the marksman, but the Spaniard ignored him. It was possible that he was unaware of the whole situation. 

 

Overwhelmed by fatigue, Porthos closed his eyes.

 

“Would you like some water?” Calbert asked.

 

“No-but I’d like some answers,” Porthos growled.

 

“We decided that it was better for you to be separated from Athos--that way, you wouldn't disturb each other...”

 

“No. It’s far better for us all to be in one room,” muttered the dark skinned musketeer.

 

Porthos sensed that Calbert was lying, but he was tired. What little energy he had left was best used in order to deal with Aramis.

 

Calbert left.

 

“Mis?” Porthos tried to move his hand. His beaten muscles protested, but his arm obeyed the command of his brain.

 

_ How badly am I injured? _

 

He touched his friend’s cheek lightly. Aramis looked up at him.

 

The despair in his eyes shattered Porthos’ heart.

 

“Lie on the bed,” the big man muttered. His brother remained motionless, his pained dark eyes staring at Porthos. 

 

“Mis, you need rest. Sitting on the floor doesn’t count.”

 

Even if he had wanted to do so, Aramis looked too weak to lift himself onto the bed. But he made no effort to move.

 

“I’ll hurt you.” The coldness in his voice made the words sound implausible. 

 

“How bad is it?” Porthos asked, trying to hazard a guess by looking at the medic’s face.

 

“Bad,” Aramis replied.

 

“I won’t leave you,” the dark skinned musketeer vowed.

 

The marksman hid his face in the bedclothes.

 

“Was it your idea to put me in a different room?” Porthos asked.

 

“No.”

 

_ You think I’m dying. Is that the only reason you’re here?  _

 

Suddenly another possibility hit him--one far worse than death. He tried to move, but his ribs, head, and leg all protested. He stilled.

 

_ Why my leg?  Wait--I was shot. That’s how I fell.  _

_ Falls can cause major injuries... _

 

“Am I crippled?” he asked, his voice close to panic. This time his question provoked a reaction from Aramis. The marksman slowly lifted himself onto the bed, and Porthos felt the medic’s fingers touch his left foot. 

 

He was quite sure that any attempt to elude the tickling sensation--or to laugh--would only result in tremendous pain.

 

“No, please!” he moaned, only to feel the touch on his other feet. Aramis nodded slightly, as if thinking to himself. 

 

“Don’t move,”  he muttered, and pulled the blanket away. 

 

Porthos felt Aramis fingers ghosting over his body. He expertly identified all of his patient’s sore spots and prodded them mercilessly. The dark skinned musketeer became uneasy when he was unable to discern anything from Aramis’ expression. In addition, the usually talkative medic remained completely silent during his examination. It was so unlike Aramis’ usual bedside manner…

 

He hissed when marksman found another very tender spot. His ribs protested against his quick intake of breath. Aramis’ hand halted at Porthos abdomen. A moment later, it it hurt like hell when the medic’s fingers palpated another injury.

 

“Do you enjoy torturing me?” he growled, unable to keep his pain and frustration in check.

 

“No. You asked me a question. I need to examine you in order to give you an adequate answer.”

 

He flinched, fighting the urge to cry out. Aramis’ cold voice had caused pain much worse than his touch ever could.

 

He felt Aramis’ hand tremble against his skin, and immediately felt guilty that he was preventing his brother from resting. 

 

“I’m sorry…” he mumbled.

 

“Don’t be,” Aramis said, his voice matter of fact. “I should bind your ribs.”

 

“Call Calbert. He can help you.” Porthos knew that he did not have the strength to hold himself upright for such a painful procedure. And even had Aramis been healthy, supporting the big man while binding his ribs would have been a real challenge.

 

The marksman nodded, but remained silent.

 

“What’s wrong?”, Porthos asked. He tried to mask the fear in his voice. Usually his tricks did not work on Aramis. However, this time the medic seemed to be barely conscious.

 

“I am not sure. I was told… I was told that your prognosis was very bad, but… I just don’t see the reason…” Aramis replied slowly.

 

_ You mean, you’ve been told that I am dying?! I’ll kill the idiot who put you through hell by telling you that! _

 

“Don’t ask me,’ Porthos muttered. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to the doctor.” He was growing very tired, and keeping his eyes open had become a real challenge.

 

Aramis touched the bandage on the big man’s leg. “Can you tell me what I’ll find under this?” It did not exactly hurt, but Porthos’ muscles stiffened in the expectation of pain--and with that movement, it came. 

 

“A gunshot wound,” he hissed.

 

“Don’t move!” Aramis ordered. He slowly got to his feet, using the wall for support. Porthos observed his unsteady gait with a broken heart. Aramis took something from table. Going to the door, he tossed the object at Athos’ door. An instant later, Porthos heard Calbert’s voice. Aramis returned to him, and sat heavily on the bed. Just then, Calbert entered the room.

 

“Who tended to him?” the marksman asked icily.

 

“George Cavin. He found Porthos lying on the street, so I could not deny him the right to tend to Porthos’ injuries… and to be paid for it. I sent for Lemay, but was told he was busy. They said he would come as soon as he was free.”

 

The name Cavin meant nothing to Porthos, but Aramis seemed disgusted.

 

“Incompetent fool!” Aramis commented. His voice was not heated, but there was something deadly in his tone.

 

“Did he remove the bullet?”

 

“He didn’t need to. It’s a deep graze, but still just a graze.”

 

“Did he use any herbs? Or did he decide that would be a waste of time?” The words were laced with a cold, dark fury. 

 

_ An injured, hurting Aramis protecting his brother. Protecting me. This is the most dangerous Aramis I know.  _

 

Immense fondness--and worry--surged in Porthos’ heart. 

 

“I was a bit too worried to pay very close attention to what Cavin was doing. For this, Aramis, I offer my sincere apologies,” Calbert replied formally. “I have some herbs that have been prepared for use in infections. You may use them on Porthos.”

 

The marksman nodded, and extended a shaking hand towards Calbert. The musketeer quickly gave him a small pot of salve. 

 

Porthos closed his eyes when he felt the men starting to work on his leg, bracing himself for the pain.  It did not hurt much when it was left alone, but now, when it was being poked and prodded...

 

Porthos tried hard not to withdraw from their touch. His mind told him that it was better to have a salve put on now than to have a wound drained later. Still, it was a highly unpleasant experience, and the pain left Porthos gasping for air.  His rapid breathing aggravated the pain that radiated from his bruised or broken ribs. In that moment, the difference was too subtle to matter, as his whole ribcage seemed to be on fire. 

 

Finally his ribs were bound, and he was allowed to recline on the pillows. A few moments later, darkness claimed him. 

 

When he opened his eyes, Aramis was again in his place on the floor, his head leaning against Porthos’ bed. The dark skinned musketeer gently stroked Aramis’ hair. It disturbed him to see medic’s face. The dark eyes were open--and so empty.

 

“Mis--I need you.” Porthos hoped that Aramis’ protective instinct was still strong.

 

It worked. The marksman immediately lifted himself up, and reached for a cup.

 

“Drink,” he murmured. 

 

Porthos obeyed, ignoring the foul, bitter taste.

 

“You really should learn to make them more palatable...” he muttered. Aramis showed no reaction.

 

“Come lie on the bed,” Porthos offered, showing him that there was room. It was then that he realized that Athos had been brought to the room. Even from a distance, he could see that fever still tormented the swordsman.

 

“Come, Mis. I need you.”

 

Aramis looked at him and obeyed, curling up on the bed near Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer gently touched his hair, moving a bit closer to the medic. The movement was incredibly painful, as his ribs protested. Aramis immediately sat on the bed, his eyes wild with worry. 

 

“Come closer. I need to feel you breathing,” Porthos whispered. He was a bit ashamed to say it, but was too hurt and tired to really care. Aramis looked at him. His gaze was cold, distant, and so incredibly sad...but then he leaned into the big man’s arms, his fingers finding Porthos’ wrist.

 

_ So you too have the need to know that I am alive… _

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's POV

D'Artagnan

He did not remember much of the fight. He dimly realized that his main gauche was buried is someone's back, but did not pay much attention to it. He pivoted, and landed hard on his knees near Constance. The Queen's eyes met his. Her face was covered with tears, and she was whispering a stream of apologies.

"Constance!" D'Artagnan squeezed her hand. "You're going to be fine… everything will be fine! Please!" He was nearly sobbing.

He was pushed to the side. In an instant, his hand went to the pommel of his sheathed rapier. Luckily, he recognized Lemay before he struck.

"Save her!" he pleaded desperately.

"I need a place to examine her properly." The doctor seemed so calm. D'Artagnan was caught between gratitude—maybe Constance was as badly wounded as he had thought— and fury—-was the doctor not taking her injuries seriously enough?

"Take her to my rooms!" the Queen ordered.

"I'm afraid it's too far, Your Majesty." Lemay said quietly. His voice was still even, but this time his words filled d'Artagnan with dread.

"Follow me!" Anne ordered.

"Can you carry her in your arms?" Lemay asked. The Gascon nodded. He followed the doctor's instructions, and carefully gathered the unconscious woman into his arms.

_The last time I carried you like this, you were giggling and kissing me and biting my lips impatiently….I was teasing you, taking my time gazing at you before I lowered you onto the bed….then you pulled my arm, and I landed on you…_

_God… you cannot take her from me! I love her so much…_

He lowered her onto the table, and hastily kissed her forehead.

"I must ask you to leave," Lemay said calmly.

"No!"

"Monsieur, I saw your Captain wounded. You should check on him. I really can't recommend any physician that's currently in the palace.

D'Artagnan knew that was something very wrong in Lemay's words. He cast one last glance at Constance's terribly pale face. He had never seen her unconscious… even when injured, she was always on her feet.

"Go… I'll stay with her," Anne promised.

"Take this satchel. You'll find everything you will need in it." Lemay murmured, not sparing a glance at him.

So he went to find Treville. The Captain was standing in the royal reception hall, blood slowly dripping from his hand onto the expensive carpets.

"Constance?" he asked. His keen eyes watched d'Artagnan intently.

_He thinks she's gone, and that that's why I've come…._

"Lemay is tending to her. He sent me to take care of your injuries, sir."

Treville relaxed a bit.

_He really cares for her!_

_Why am I so surprised?! Does he treat her as one of us - his musketeers?_

"The perimeter has been secured, but there is no trace of Rochefort. We're thin in numbers, as I had to send out a few parties on different missions. In retrospect, these "missions" were probably invented by Rochefort. I can only hope these men will return. I am afraid I cannot give you any leave." The compassion in the Captain's voice hit the Gascon hard.

"Is Porthos back?" d'Artagnan asked.. He was helping Treville take off his doublet in order to gain access to the wound. He made his commander sit down on the one of two steps that led to the royal thrones. He dug out alcohol, a sewing kit, and bandages from the medical kit. As he poured alcohol over the wound, Treville winced, but remained silent. D'Artagnan started to clean the long gash. It was bleeding too heavily for his liking. He badly wanted for Aramis to take over. But Aramis was probably lying unconscious or unresponsive... and that was thought made the lad happy and worried at the same time.

_When we found out that Aramis was alive, for a moment I dared to hope that we'd be whole again...but if Constance— no, there is not if!_

"D'Artagnan?" Treville's voice made him realize that he had had frozen in place with the needle in his hand.

"Are you injured?" the Captain inquired.

"No… at least, I don't think so".

Unless they were bleeding profusely, it was not so easy to distinguish fresh wounds from old ones.

When the Gascon finished the last stitch, he poured alcohol over the wound once again, then bandaged it.

"She's tough. She'll pull through," Treville said. D'Artagnan nodded. He appreciated the Captain's support, but it only made him more aware of how dire the situation was.

"I have to talk to the King." The Captain struggled to a standing position, gratefully accepting d'Artagnan's help. The lad accompanied him to the door. When the Captain dismissed him, he stilled, gazing at the bloodstain on the carpet. Constance's blood.

After a long moment, he directed headed towards the room where Constance lay. A scream of pain caused him to storm into the room. He rushed towards the his sweetheart. The redhead was conscious, and was trying free herself from the Queen's hands. Anne was desperately trying to keep her still.

"Constance!" D'Artagnan grasped her arms, trying to ignore the blood which covered her naked breast.

"Hold her still!" Lemay ordered. He was completely focused on the wound.

D'Artagnan nodded, and lowered his head towards Constance. Tears were streaming over her face. Her bloody lips were gasping for air.

He placed his forehead against hers.

"You'll be fine, Constance. Everything will be fine. I love you… I cannot lose you! Please.."

She screamed once more, squirming in a futile attempt to escape the pain. Then she went limp. D'Artagnan felt as if dread was suffocating him. However he did not dare to check on her, as he was still occupied with holding her down. He was unable to say anything else than her name.

"She lives," Queen assured, him her voice trembling.

"Brave girl…" d'Artagnan whispered. He had lost the track of time. Only the knock on the door which made him to think to leave her in order to check on the newcomer...

_An assassin would wait to be invited in._

Treville entered. His eyes took in the room before he turned towards the Queen with a quick bow.

"Your Majesty, may I ask you to send Dr. Lemay to the garrison when he finishes here?"

"Of course," she replied, dread clear in her voice, "Have your men succeeded in their pursuit of Rochefort, Captain?"

"Unfortunately not. Porthos was found. He is badly injured. That's why I am requesting Dr. Lemay's assistance."

It seemed that the doctor was too focused on the wound to take part in their conversation. He surprised them all when without lifting his head, he replied, "I'll come as soon as I can."

"Thank you." There was relief in Treville's voice.

_Porthos badly wounded? We're truly doomed! Am I alone meant to keep us whole?!_

"How badly is he wounded?!" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm not a physician, and I did not have the opportunity to speak with one. I'd rather wait for Doctor Lemay's opinion." Treville's response was diplomatic, but seemed to betray that Porthos' prognosis was not optimistic.

"And Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked a bit breathlessly.

Anne gasped, covering her mouth with her bloody hand.

"Devastated. You're needed there. I want you to accompany Doctor Lemay," the Captain ordered. Fatigue—and a hint of fear—was noticeable in his eyes.

"Is Aramis alive?!" Anne asked. Her blue eyes seemed far too wide when contrasted with her pale skin.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Treville replied awkwardly. "He was found alive, although seriously injured."

Lemay joined the conversation. "I've seen to him. He should recover."

Anne closed her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer. D'Artagnan was grateful that Lemay was so focused on Constance.

_Constance… please!_

He looked at her face. It was devoid of any colour. Blood was slowly coagulating on her lips.

_Will I ever see her eyes again? Will she ever smile at me again?_

_Please… Let her live!_

_Please… I know I am not a good believer—I know I've disappointed you many times… but don't take her from me… please…_

"Your Majesty?" Lemay's voice jolted d'Artagnan from his prayer.

"Yes?" The Queen still held Constance's hand in her own.

"I want you to keep Madame Bonacieux on this table until I return. I need this room to be warmer—and I would appreciate a clean sheet, as well as a few blankets."

D'Artagnan could not avert his gaze from Constance's face.

Anne gave the orders to the servant waiting near the door.

"How is she, doctor?" The Queen's voice sounded so small.

"I've managed to repair the damage caused to her lung. I have done such a type of surgery twice before, with different outcomes—so it is too soon to say how she will fare."

D'Artagnan looked at him. Disbelief was clear on his face.

"How…?" he gasped.

"I guess you ask how such a procedure is possible. I know what you're taught. Unfortunately, usually it's true. Few physicians are keen to use methods that were invented in Ancient Greece and practiced by Maurs." Lemay's voice was soft and tired.

After he finished cleaning his hands, he added, "Someone should be with her at all times."

"I'll stay," Anne declared.

The doctor nodded, turned to d'Artagnan.

"We can go and see to your friends."

The Gascon felt as if he was walking into cold, deep water, but he dutifully followed the doctor. He needed to be alert—not exactly for Lemay's sake, but because this man held Constance's life in his hands.

_Porthos… I cannot bear more anguish and sorrow. Please, brother…_

When they reached the garrison, Lemay decided to check on Athos first. D'Artagnan led the way. He opened the door to his mentor's room, then froze.

The room was empty.

_No! Athos… please!_

In a daze, he reached Aramis' room. His knees buckled when he saw another empty bed.

"No!" he sobbed.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan?" Lemay shook his arm, "I think you may find your friends there." He gestured towards Porthos' room."

The Gascon rushed to the doors. When they opened, he nearly fell inside. Calbert stood inside the chamber, a gun in one hand and a dagger in the other.

"They are all here." The musketeer told him, then allowed him to pass.

D'Artagnan entered the room and stilled. Aramis was curled up at Porthos' side, his fingers on the big man's wrist. His lack of reaction was worrying.

The blanket over them only allowed a view of the bandage on Porthos' head. They both were too still.

Athos, on the other hand, was tossing back and forth, mumbling something incoherently. D'Artagnan sat on his bed.

"Athos.." he whispered, cringing when he felt how hot his friend was.

"Aramis—" whispered Athos, "—wait for me… please!"

"Athos! Aramis is alive. He is alive!" D'Artagnan took the swordsman's hand in his, but the wounded man wrenched it away abruptly.

"Don't you dare to lie to me!" he growled.

"Athos— open your eyes, please…"

Hissing in pain, the man curled up, his back to the room.

"Athos… I am not lying to you! Please!"

D'Artagnan felt useless. His brother was tormenting himself with guilt, and would anot allow himself to see the sight which would absolve him.

The Gascon looked at Aramis. The medic was slowly regaining his senses, but it took him a long moment to understand that Lemay needed space in order to take care of Porthos. Finally he tried to sit up, supported by Lemay. His haunted eyes never left Porthos.

"Aramis?" D'Artagnan knelt in front of him. "Athos needs you. May I help you go to him?"

Aramis showed no reaction, and d'Artagnan felt his heart drop.

"Aramis," he repeated, cupping his friend's face.

His brother slowly pivoted his head in order to watch Lemay tend to Porthos. The doctor tried to raise his patient up. Finally, he succeeded. The dark skinned musketeer mumbled a frantic, "Mis?!"

In one quick move, Aramis surprised d'Artagnan's by slipping out of his hands. He managed to elude Lemay, and knelt on the floor in order to take Porthos' hand in his. D'Artagnan waited for a stream of platitudes, but none came.

"How do you feel, Monsieur" Lemay asked.

"Tired."

"Is there anything specific that bothers you?"

"Head, chest...leg.… everything."

"I have to examine you. You must tell me I elicit any severe pain. It's very important. Do you understand?"

"Yes", Porthos closed his eyes with some resignation. His fingers gently stroked Aramis' hand, only to squeeze it tightly once Lemay started his examination.

The Gascon flinched when he saw the rich array of bruises concentrated on the right side of Porthos' chest, abdomen, hand and leg.

Porthos hissed several times. D'Artagnan watched Aramis intently, unsure as to whether the marksman's protective instinct would kick in. The Gascon was ready to prevent any attempt to hurt Lemay. However, his worries were for naught, as Aramis remained on the floor.

"Monsieur Porthos, were you conscious before I arrived?"

"Mhm," the big man mumbled.

"Did you feel better than you feel now?"

"I have no idea… but I can tell you that I felt better before you started poking me."

"That's normal." Lemay said reassuringly, a small smile on his face.

There was an awkward silence. Normally, it was Aramis who would ask about Porthos' condition, but he remained silent.

"So?" Unable to bear the silence, d'Artagnan finally spoke up.

Lemay chose to address his remarks to Porthos. "Barring any infection, your leg will heal completely. As you are conscious and coherent, I believe your head wound should not cause any major problem. In the course of your healing, you may experience pain, dizziness, and nausea. However, I am concerned about the bruising. It's pretty extensive. I am afraid your that your organs may be bruised as well. If the damage is minimal, it should heal without any complication. The fact that you are conscious is promising. You must stay in bed, and tell us immediately if you feel worse, as your life may depend on it. Do you understand?"

"You sound just as if you have spent some time as a garrison medic," Porthos murmured, a slight grin on his face.

Lemay smiled, clearly relieved at his patient's reaction. A trembling Aramis hid his face in the bed. D'Artagnan threw a blanket on him, then sat on Athos' bed. Lemay focused on redressing Porthos' wounds.

Athos seemed to be caught up in another nightmare. He was desperately whispering their marksman's name. However, not all of his words were audible.

"Wake up!" growled d'Artagnan. He did not hold out any hope for a reaction. He was frustrated with his inability to help Athos.

The swordsman shivered, and shifted his position in order to lie on his other side. The wound on his back clearly was disturbing his rest.

"Wake up!" D'Artagnan took a rag soaked with cold water and allow a few drops from it to fall on his mentor's face. The man slowly opened his eyes and licked the moisture from his lips.

The Gascon mercilessly hauled him into at sitting position.

"Look!" He positioned Athos' head so that Aramis was in his sight line.

"Aramis?!" Athos was astonished.

D'Artagnan extended his leg in order to kick the marksman, hoping to elicit a reaction. However, the man ignored him.

"He's dead," Athos stated sadly.

A surprised d'Artagnan looked at him.

"There is no way that a corpse could maintain such a position!" he said confidently.

Porthos said something, finally eliciting a reaction from Aramis. The man approached Athos' bed, but he did not even bother to try to stand up.

Athos gazed at his friend. "Mis! You've come for me!"

Aramis reached for his hand, and Athos pulled back. His movement was so sharp that d'Artagnan nearly lost his hold on him. Shocked, he allowed Athos to lower himself onto the bed.

"Athos, why?!"

"He's dead. My hand will pass through him. I cannot stand it!"

"He's alive, just as I am!" the Gascon cried out in despair.

"So you're dead too." Athos closed his eyes in resignation.

The marksman crumpled on the floor—and stayed there until Lemay asked d'Artagnan to move him onto Porthos' bed.


	28. Chapter 28

Athos

_You’re dead. I saw you dying—all because of me. As much as I want you to be alive, I know you’re only a hallucination. You’re so sad… even as my hallucination._

Athos stared at Aramis, who lay curled up on the floor in the small space between the two beds. The swordsman could not see his brother’s face, but he felt despair radiating from the marksman.

Was he real? Was he alive? Or was it only his tormented ghost? A spirit who had come back to haunt Athos for the sins he had committed against his brother.

The swordsman must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes once again, he saw Aramis lying on the bed. Lemay was tending to his injuries. Athos gulped when he saw the extent of the damage that had been caused by the brand. He remembered seeing Aramis press the hot iron to his skin, and recalled how the smell of burnt flesh had hung in the air.

The wave of nausea hit him hard. It was embarrassing to throw up after seeing a comrade’s injuries. Even when he was a raw recruit, that had never happened. Most likely the fever was to blame, he thought. He watched as d’Artagnan cleaned the floor. The boy’s face was a pale, sickly grey.

Aramis flinched as the doctor applied some balm to the worst of his burns. Porthos reacted immediately. Athos could not hear the words that the dark skinned musketeer whispered to his brother, but he saw their effect. Aramis stopped trying to elude the pain, and instead lay motionless on the bed. He appeared lifeless—dead.

Lemay went to rummage through his medical bag, then approached the marksman with a draught in his hand. The wounded man turned his head away.

“Monsieur, your wounds have become infected. You need these herbs to fight the infection.”

The Spaniard did not respond.

“Mis, please. Drink it,” whispered Porthos. Aramis’ reaction surprised Athos.

The marksman turned his head towards Lemay, and accepted the cup that the physician pressed to his lips. He drank the draught dutifully, draining the cup within a minute.

The doctor smiled reassuringly, but he was clearly shocked to see the marksman so cooperative.

Porthos’ eyes met Athos’ gaze. The big man smiled briefly, but there was sadness in his eyes.

“How do you feel, Athos?” his brother asked. His usually booming voice was far too weak for Athos’ liking.

_I don’t know… too hot… too tired. My back feels like it’s been consumed by a pulsing fire._

“I’m fine.”

Porthos snorted, shaking his head in exasperation.

D’Artagnan, a steaming cup in his hand, came over and sat on the edge of Athos’ bed.

“You have to drink this.”

“No.” Athos was sure he would throw up anything he tried to swallow.

“It will help you.”

D’Artagnan was being annoyingly persistent. Athos was too exhausted to reply, so he simply closed his eyes.

Clearly they were not going to let him sleep. He felt a hand on his face, but decided to ignore it. He then found himself hauled into a semi-upright position. A cup, probably the same cup he had declined, was pressed to his lips.

He felt a hand on his throat, ready to coax him into swallowing the draught. Annoyed at the thought of being humiliated any further, he decided to cooperate.

He opened his eyes to glare at the person who had dared to assault him in such a fashion. It was d’Artagnan.

“I thought you were unconscious,” the lad said sheepishly.

Those innocent words provoked a dark fury in Athos. Why had they put him in the same room as Aramis? To torment him by forcing him to witness the markman’s slow decline? Why hadn’t they just allowed the marksman to fade away? Why was he being subjected to it? Probably because it was his fault. How he hated Aramis for the sacrifice he had made! He would gladly beat the man for stubbornly clinging to his stupid honor.

“Monsieur, I am afraid that it’s your turn to have your wounds tended.” Lemay must have seen the anger in his eyes, for the doctor murmured, “I urge you to cooperate with me. I have no time to waste. I must return to the palace as soon as possible.”

Athos saw d’Artagnan blanch at the man’s words, and a sense of dread crept into his heart. “Why must you hurry back?”

“Madame Bonacieux is seriously wounded. I prefer not to be absent from her bedside any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“Wounded? How?”

“She was stabbed by a knife that was meant for the Queen. Rochefort’s knife.” D’Artagnan’s face was lined with worry.

Athos made no move to object as the doctor started to work on his bandages. “So Rochefort has been arrested?”

“No. I was close to apprehending him, but I failed. He’s on the run now,” Porthos growled. The tone of his voice made Aramis stiffen. The big man sighed, and slowly stroked marksman’s hair. Even this small movement was clearly painful for him.

Athos bit his lip when Lemay started to probe his wound. He realized that his hand was holding on to something. He focused on the object in order to try to channel the pain into his grip. Before the doctor had finished, Athos was drenched in sweat, and was barely conscious. When a bitter liquid was poured into his mouth, he was too exhausted to protest. He drank it greedily, hoping for relief from his torment. When he finally entered into an oblivion that was free from pain, he was not sure if his escape had been effected by the ordeal itself or the action of the herbs. In the end, it did not matter.

_No._  
I am not seeing Aramis kneeling in front of his captors. I am not seeing my brother being whipped and abused.   
I am not seeing blood dripping from his cracked lips.

_No.  
I am not seeing his eyes open for the last time._

_“So, I will offer you a choice. Who will die today? You? Or your friend?” Rochefort gave the wounded musketeer a cruel smile._

_“Kill me!” Aramis replied instantly._

_He did not flinch when the comte buried a knife deep into his abdomen. When the hilt finally touched skin, a smirking Rochefort gave the blade a vicious twist, then pulled it free. Blood poured from the wound._

_Aramis trembled, but did not make a sound._

_“Sweet dreams, musketeers.” Closing the door behind him, the comte left, his laughter receding into the distance._

_“Aramis! Aramis!” Athos cried. He cursed the chains that fixed him to the wall, making it impossible for him to go to his brother’s side._

_“Come here… Mis… please,” Athos whispered. He needed to be able to comfort his fatally wounded brother._

_Aramis began to crawl towards him. Each move he made was obviously painful, but he could not deny Athos his presence. Athos—the man who was responsible for their capture. Who would now be responsible for Aramis’ death._

_The marksman finally curled up in a ball next to Athos, his head leaning against swordsman’s arm._

_Athos tried to hold pressure on the bleeding wound, but Aramis gently moved his hand aside._

_“I’m a dead man. I’d prefer it be quick…”_

_Athos’ heart nearly broke with the sobs that threatened to rise from deep within him._

_“Tell Porthos it was my decision—my choice… tell him… to take care of you and d’Artagnan… you have to live... “_

_“No! Aramis!!”_

_“Try to save her and my son from… intrigues… and assassins… please... “ There was so much pain in those brown eyes. Athos knew that he had to do whatever was necessary to help Aramis. He could do nothing for the wound, but he could respect his brother’s last wishes._

_“I’ll do my best,” he vowed._

_Blood dripping from his mouth, Aramis tried to smile, but pain contorted his handsome features into a mask of suffering._

_Athos desperately tried to comfort the marksman, but there was nothing he could do for the pain. He kept talking—about anything and everything, most of it nonsense —as he knew that Aramis did not handle silence well. He did his best to anchor his dying brother, hoping to see some sign of life from the marksman. But he knew the time would come when Aramis would no longer respond to his pleas to squeeze his hand._

_Although part of him wanted that time to never come, part of him prayed for it. Witnessing his brother’s agony was more than he could stand._

_Finally it came.  
He screamed Aramis’ name when he did not feel Spaniard’s breath on his hand. He screamed desperately, as if someone might appear and give Aramis back to him, alive and well._

A voice was calling him over and over. A cold liquid slowly dripping onto his hot skin. He licked the moisture from his lips.

“Athos?” He heard Aramis voice. It sounded uncertain.

He did not want to open his eyes. He could not bear to see the torment on his brother’s face.

He seized the hand which had laid a cold rag on his forehead.   
“Don’t go!” the swordsman pleaded desperately. He hated himself for saying it. His words only served to confirm his selfishness.

“Look at me.” Aramis’ voice sounded much more stable—and stronger than he remembered.

One hand cupped his face, while the other squeezed his fingers. Exactly as Aramis used to—until there was no strength left in his fingers.

“No!” Athos choked on his sob.

“Open your eyes!” The command was given in the tone of an order that must be obeyed.

The swordsman slowly complied. His eyelids were heavy, but finally he succeeded in opening them. When his vision cleared, he saw Aramis gazing at him intently.

“Are you with me?” the medic asked. He was pale, and badly bruised. There was something strange and worrying in his watchful, but distant, eyes.

“Where am I?” Athos looked around the room, and saw Porthos sleeping on the other bed.

“At the garrison—in Porthos’ room,” Aramis murmured. “You had a bad dream.”

_Yes. It was a dream. You didn’t bleed out from a stab wound to the abdomen, but you did sacrifice yourself for me, you idiot!_

“You sacrificed yourself for me!” He remembered now—the crack of the whip as it cut Aramis’ skin. The whip that Aramis had held in his own hand. “How dare you!”

“Athos, it was my choice. I am sorry it was not what you wanted.” The marksman replied, his manner cold and formal. The Spaniard rarely spoke like this. His words only served to confirm Athos’ worst fears.

“You’re dead!” he cried.

“So you were a witness to my mock execution. I am sorry that Milady could not find a way to get word to you that I was still alive.”

“No, Aramis! You’re dead!”

“Athos, I’m alive.” The marksman caught his hand, pressing it to his chest so his leader could feel the steady beat of his heart. Aramis’ fingers felt cold against his skin.

_I probably still have a fever…_

“Your heart may still be beating, but we both know you’re dead inside—and now I have to live—and serve beside you— with the knowledge that it’s my fault that the Aramis I knew has been replaced by an empty shell of a man.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it. You’ve crossed the line this time, Aramis.”

“Do you intend to punish me, Lieutenant? If so, I believe a whipping would be an appropriate punishment for my insubordination.”

_If his voice were not so distant, I would think he was mocking me—but he seems to believe what he’s saying. Does he really think I would sentence him to a whipping? With his wounds still so raw? I cannot stand the thought of punishing him!_

_You’re the embodiment of my guilt—and there is only one way to soothe my conscience._

“I plan to make a request to Captain Treville. I think it’s best that he transfer you to another regiment.”

Aramis’ face drained of all colour. Even his bruises seemed to turn grey.

“Then I shall remove myself. I do not want my presence to serve as an impediment to your recovery.” The marksman turned and headed for the door, his gait unsteady.

“No!” Porthos must have heard part of their conversation. He struggled to his feet, and took a few steps towards Aramis before stumbling. The marksman caught him in his arms, and they fell heavily to the ground.

_Have I just killed another brother?_

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, forgive me the delay. I promise not to abandon this story. One day it will be complete! I swear!

 

Anne

 

Constance lay motionless on the table. Her friend had taken a blade meant for her, and had been seriously wounded in the process. The redhead should have never been forced to make such a choice. She was not a soldier. She was not a guard, nor a musketeer. Or was she? Suddenly, the Queen was not sure what her friend was. Perhaps Constance  _ was _ a musketeer. Treville sometimes acted like she was.

 

Anne gently washed her friend’s face with a wet cloth, biting her lip to keep from crying. Constance’s skin was cold and clammy. Her lips were slightly parted, and she appeared to be barely breathing.

 

There was a knock on the door. Anne quietly gave permission for the visitor to enter. She knew that at least one musketeer was guarding the door. Only those closest to her would be allowed into the room. Treville came in, and inclined his head. 

 

“The King is asking for you. I was ordered to escort you to him.”

 

The memories of the accusations she had made regarding Rochefort came flooding back into her mind, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She had not been honest with Louis upon her return. He was likely to be be very angry with her.

 

“She cannot be left alone,” the Queen said.

 

“I have asked Etienne to keep vigil by her bedside,” the musketeers’ leader replied. After casting one last glance at her friend, Anne followed him. Constance’s stillness frightened her. 

 

“How is the King?” she asked.

 

“These events have shaken him. He trusted Rochefort.”

 

“Do you think I have made a mistake?’

 

“I am not sure. If not for your actions, the comte would have evaded any accusations….”

 

She wanted to scold Treville for not informing her about Aramis, but she knew there was no real reason for him to tell her—and it would not be seemly for her to be so interested in a musketeer’s wellbeing. 

 

“Captain.” A musketeer stopped them, bowing hastily to the Queen.

 

_ What does he know? Does he despise me? _

 

“What is wrong?” Anne asked.

 

“A man named Bonacieux is making a scene. He is demanding to see his wife.”

 

“Please put him in one of the small reception rooms. I will speak with him later. Do not allow him access to Constance.”

 

The man smiled. “With pleasure, Your Majesty.” He bowed, then left.

 

As they neared their destination, Anne glanced at Treville. “I will need your help, Captain.” She prayed that Treville would not press her for details. There was no time for that now. They walked past the guard standing in front of the King’s chamber.

 

“Wait for me here, Captain.”  Anne summoned up her most regal expression, and knocked lightly on the door. She entered after receiving permission, and made a slight bow.

 

“You asked for me, Sire.”

 

“Yes.” Louis sat on the chaise longue. He looked small, and incredibly young, His face was slightly swollen, and his eyes were red from crying. 

 

He sniffled, and patted the place next to him. “Anne… sit here, please.” 

 

She obeyed, although it felt very uncomfortable to be so close to him. 

 

The King sighed heavily. “You have no idea how hard this has been for me. Rochefort—I trusted him… I liked him. He was smart and energetic—always positive… I felt that he was a gift from God, sent to console me after Richelieu’s untimely demise… but he turned out to be thief of the worst sort. He tried to steal my wife from me! I can accept that he was a Spanish spy, but how  _ dare _ he touch you?!”

 

Anne shivered, and bowed her head. Louis did not even seem to notice, and continued to ramble on. “As King, I am obliged to have more children with you. But after this, how am I supposed to perform my husbandly duties?”  His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. “When I think of what he did, it makes me feel physically ill. He took you, the Queen of France—-  _ my _ Queen—to his bed!”

 

Anne felt her composure slipping. Louis was in despair. She had been so caught up in her own fear that she had not stopped to consider how her husband might be affected. 

 

“Sire…”

 

“Will you bear his child?” he asked brutally.

 

“I don’t know. I hope not.”  Anne knew that for the moment, there was no reason to panic. She had to trust in the draughts Constance had made for her, and believe that they would work.

“You are aware if such a child were to be born, I’d have to order that it be killed immediately? Especially if it’s a boy? Damn this traitor! He has put me in a such a disturbing situation. I am a merciful, generous King! I do not want to be put into a position where I am forced to order the death of a newborn baby!”

 

He sniffed, then looked up at her, his eyes filling with tears. “You knew him before. Was he always like that? Or was he broken in prison? I cannot bear the thought of such a thing ever happening again. Should I give an order for all retrieved prisoners to be executed?”

 

Anne struggled to take in a breath. She knew that she could not interrupt a royal monologue, but he was close to making some hasty decisions—one of which could mean a death sentence for the musketeers she was so fond of.

 

_ And for the musketeer I love...who miraculously is still alive. _

 

He straightened, and seemed to have come to a decision. “I cannot take the risk. I must arrest all musketeers who have been captured by our enemies in the past.”

 

“But Sire, that would leave us unprotected. These musketeers are people whom you chose personally. I refuse to believe that your judgement was so wrong.”

 

“But I also chose Rochefort—-and I gave him power.”

 

“You were overcome by grief, my King.”

 

“That is true—but I just cannot accept that he betrayed my trust in such a savage way! He chose to commit adultery with my own queen... _ my wife _ …”

 

Anne looked at him, unable to believe her ears. “He chose to rape your wife!” She felt detached from reality. She desperately needed him to understand what had happened. The idea that she chosen of her own free will to betray her husband with Rochefort made her feel sick. 

 

The King stared back at her, clearly shocked. 

 

“I feel sorry for you,” he mumbled.

 

_ You’re wrong. The only person you feel sorry for is yourself.  _

 

“How is Constance?” His question surprised her.

 

“Time will tell,” she replied sadly. 

 

She saw a glint of compassion in her husband’s eyes. 

“Do you wish to stay by her side?”

 

“Yes, Sire.”

 

“Then let it be so.”  Through his tears, he gave her a weak smile. “I just hope that Milady will be able to help me through my pain.”

 

The queen knew that she had been dismissed. She did not love her husband, but his indifference was nonetheless painful. 

 

She withdrew from his rooms to find Treville waiting for her. 

 

They did not return to Constance. Instead, Anne asked him to accompany her to the room where Jacques was being held. She entered without knocking, and Treville followed her. A startled Bonacieux gave her an awkward bow.

 

“I heard my wife was injured. How is that possible?! I must see her! I need to take her home where she belongs!”

 

Anne silenced him with a regal wave of her hand. “Your wife saved my life. She will remain here, under the care of my physician. I do not trust you, Monsieur. I was told you were in a conspiracy with Rochefort.”

 

“Your Majesty, he was the Prime Minister! How could I refuse his orders?”

 

“Nevertheless, you were actively plotting against me. You tried to take my protector away from me.”

 

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, my wife was never meant to be your protector!”

 

The man was close to tears, but Anne did not feel merciful. She waited in silence for a few moments, watching as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Finally, she spoke. 

 

“You are a simple man, and I can see that it may have been quite easy for Rochefort to deceive you. I have decided to be lenient, but I cannot risk you taking Constance away from me. So I will give you some money, and you will disappear. You will be declared dead, and you will start a new life in Spain or England. However, if you attempt to return to France, I will have you executed. Have I made myself clear?”

 

“You cannot! You have no right!”

 

“That statement is treason, Monsieur,” she replied coldly. “Captain, arrest him!” She was desperate to give Constance her freedom, but she did not want to have to kill Bonacieux. He was stupid, but clearly innocent of any crime against the state.

 

“No! Please, have mercy!” he begged, falling to his knees.

 

“Wait here for the money—and make sure you never come back.” Anne’s firm tone of voice made it clear that she expected nothing but absolute obedience. She left, and the Captain followed her.

 

As they walked down the corridor, he asked, “Is this a good idea, my Queen?” 

 

“Short of her husband dying, it’s the only way Constance ever be able to marry d’Artagnan,” she replied. “Jean, she nearly died because of me. She still may die.” Her voice was almost pleading now. She needed for him to understand. “I must find some way to repay her for her sacrifice!” 

 

The Captain merely nodded. He waited while Anne went into her chambers to retrieve some gold. She allowed Treville to accompany her back to Constance’s room.  He did not protest when she asked him to give the purse to Bonacieux. 

 

“How is she?” she asked Etienne. He sat on a low stool next to the bed. 

 

“No change, Your Majesty,” he replied sadly.

 

_ Why hasn’t Lemay returned? We need him now more than ever! The musketeers are in desperate need of his aid. Porthos is badly wounded, and Aramis is devastated… Aramis… I should talk to him. I need to see him. I need to get to the garrison somehow.  _

 

_ Milady. Milady can help me. No! I cannot trust her! How would I explain why I need to go there?!  _

 

A soft whimper woke her from her reveries.

 

“Constance?” She leaned over her friend. 

 

The wounded woman whimpered once again, her face crumpling in pain.

 

“Shhh… I’ll give you something to ease your pain,” Anne whispered. Etienne handed her a draught. 

 

Constance shrank from the Queen’s touch, her head lolling to the side. 

 

“D’Artagnan,” she whispered helplessly.

 

Anne gently stroked her hair.

 

“You’re safe. He’ll be back soon, I promise.”

 

The redhead’s eyelids fluttered, but she did not open her eyes.

 

“You must drink.” Anne gave Etienne an awkward glance. He seemed to understand. Taking the draught, he started to spoon the liquid into Constance’s mouth. Although she was barely conscious, he proceeded with patience, his movements sure and experienced. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

Anger and fury made his pain seem less important. How could Athos treat Aramis so poorly?! Didn’t he realize how badly he had hurt their marksman? 

 

Porthos knew why Athos had done it. Their lieutenant had wanted to punish Aramis for his willingness to sacrifice himself for his leader’s sake. But he had chosen the worst possible moment to do so. Porthos had never seen their medic so distant—so emotionless. He was at a loss for what to do. He cursed the stupid fall that had confined him to bed just as his reckless brother had recovered enough to be more mobile. Obviously Aramis’ condition was far from good—but he was fit enough to move, even if only to make his way to the closest inn and then pass out in a room.

 

That was why Porthos was so desperate to stop the medic. He did not feel much remorse when they collapsed in a heap on the floor. The wave of pain that crossed his abused body was initially a welcome distraction. Only then did he realize that Aramis was pinned under him. His mind registered the sound of Athos shouting for Calbert. However, the position in which he and Aramis had landed served to effectively block the door. 

 

“Aramis?” he whispered. The big man tried to roll off his friend, but the combination of his injuries and the narrow space made it very difficult.

 

Calbert tried to enter the room, but his progress was halted by the door hitting their bodies.

 

“Wait!” Porthos hissed, struggling to untangle himself from his brother. Finally, he managed to move, and dragged Aramis with him. This made just enough space for Calbert to open the door a few more inches and slip inside. 

 

The musketeer gave an exasperated sigh. He left Aramis alone, and moved to lift Porthos back onto the bed. The big man cooperated, but his eyes never left Aramis’ pale face. 

 

After dealing with Porthos, Calbert knelt near Aramis. He gently patted the marksman’s face. There was no reaction. Sudden worry sickened Porthos. What if his stunt had killed Aramis?! 

 

Calbert placed his fingers on the Spaniard’s neck, then stilled. 

 

Porthos felt the world start to spin around him. If Aramis had died...if he had killed Aramis—he would seek revenge by attacking Athos. However, one glance at the deathly pale man changed his mind. 

 

He could not kill his feverish brother. 

 

_ But will I be able to forgive him?! _

 

_ No! Aramis had to live! There was no other option. _

 

“He is still alive,” Calbert said calmly.

 

“Then why is he unconscious?”

 

“A more appropriate question would be how has he been able to remain conscious for such an extended period of time,” Calbert murmured, checking on Aramis.

 

“He’s pulled out some of his stitches,” he sighed. Leaning forward, he gently gathered the wounded man in his arms, then laid him near Porthos. “I’ll have to redo the sutures.”

 

The dark skinned musketeer touched the marksman’s cheek, his fingers tracing the outline of the ugly violet bruise. “Please ‘Mis… wake up.”

 

Aramis eyelids fluttered, but he did not lift them. However, when Calbert started to work on the bandages, which were now stained with fresh blood, the Spaniard’s body tensed. 

 

Porthos sighed. Suddenly, he felt incredibly drained. The pain radiating through his abdomen should probably worry him, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he focused on comforting Aramis by holding his hand. 

 

Calbert finished sewing up their marksman, then dressed his wounds. After he was done, he withdrew, taking a place near the window in the far corner. 

 

Once his wounds were tended, the marksman seemed to relax.

 

Porthos tried again. “Mis?”

 

Aramis looked up at him. “I need to leave,” he mumbled.

 

“No. You need to stay.”

 

Porthos saw a mix of emotions on his friend’s face. 

Confusion. Pain. Hurt. Anger. Sadness. 

 

“Mis?” Porthos asked softly.

 

The marksman closed his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the tears that were sliding down his face.

 

“Athos hates me.”  Aramis’ voice was close to a sob. “I cannot stay. I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

 

Porthos was at a loss. His brother was shivering, his eyes pleading with Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer did not know how to help him. Finally, he gently pulled Aramis into his arms. 

 

“If Athos forces you to leave our team, I’ll go with you. I promise.”

 

“I’d never ask you to do that.”

 

“I know. And you know how Athos is when he’s feverish—or drunk.”

 

“But he’s right, Porthos. I am dead.”

 

Porthos closed his eyes, and tried to regain his composure. He tightened his hold on Aramis, causing the other man to wince.

 

“When Athos told me that you’d been shot...it was the worst moment of my life. I… Aramis…. You’re…” As Porthos cursed his awkwardness with words, his brother gazed at him intently.  His muscles tensed under Porthos’ hands. He reminded the big man of a skittish horse who was ready to bolt. The brief moment of unconsciousness had divested Aramis of his shields, leaving him vulnerable. Porthos knew he could not allow his brother to resume the cold stoicism that he had demonstrated earlier. He knew that if the marksman was allowed to do so, he would slip further away. Perhaps he was already beyond help. The dark skinned musketeer was more frightened of this possibility than he would admit.

 

“Mis… I don’t know how you feel. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what they have done to you. All I know is that I need you at my side. It’s selfish, but—please stay. Stay alive. Stay with me. Fight for me.”

 

Aramis remained silent, but he pressed his forehead into Porthos’ arm, allowing his friend to run his fingers through his hair.

 

The dark skinned musketeer was feeling worse, but he did his best to hide it. 

 

“There’s nothing left in me,” the marksman whispered.

 

Porthos could not tell if this statement was contributing to his nausea, but the urge to throw up finally got the best of him. He was vaguely aware of Aramis reaching for a bucket. As he vomited, pain shot through the musketeer’s body. His abused ribs and head protested strongly. Darkness started to eat away at the edges of his vision.

 

Finally his ordeal ended. Porthos realized that a cold cloth was soothing his face.

 

“Porthos?” Aramis’ voice was full of worry. The care and anguish in his eyes belied his earlier statements about the hollowness of his heart. 

 

“I’m still here,” he murmured.

 

“I think this is only the lingering effect of your concussion, but just to be sure, I’ve sent for Lemay. It’s not pleasant, but I doubt it’s dangerous,” Aramis said reassuringly. 

 

Porthos caught his hand, and the marksman froze. He seemed to understand the big man’s silent plea to give him some time to recover a bit from his ordeal. He sensed that Aramis wanted to inquire about his well-being, but chose instead to honor his plea. 

 

Finally Porthos decided to risk relaxing his body. He was not at all surprised when a drop of tea fell on his lips. Aramis’ fingers hovered near his mouth, ready to drip more draught into his mouth. Porthos licked the moisture tentatively, unsure if it would aggravate either his nausea or his thirst. He knew this was Aramis’ way of testing him. 

 

Porthos decided that he wanted more, and his friend readily obliged him. This time, he fed him slowly with a spoon. 

 

In a normal situation, the marksman would tease him, and Porthos would protest against being treated like a child. However, this time, he simply needed his brother’s care. This told him that Aramis was not lost. 

 

“Mis?” he whispered. The medic immediately leaned towards him.

 

“You’re not just a hollow shell. I can see that by watching you care for me. You’re not dead.”

 

The medic closed his eyes for a moment. “I am not myself anymore. I don’t know how I’ll carry on. You say to give it time, but I can’t wait. I can’t stay the way I am. I know I have to heal a bit before I go after Rochefort.”

 

“You shouldn’t go alone. Promise me you won’t, Mis. We’ll hunt him down. Together.”

 

The marksman sighed. “We both need time to heal, but I don’t have that kind of time.”

 

Porthos could not find anything to say. 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lemay's POV

Lemay

 

He understood the panic which gripped the young musketeer’s heart, but the doctor was taken by surprise when he saw how easily d’Artagnan allowed his fear to take over. It was as if the soldier was sure they all were doomed. His frantic search for his friends in the garrison had proved that to be the case. Lemay sympathized with him. However, he still found his behavior a bit shocking, even though knew that the lad was in love with Constance—the same Constance who lay unconscious on a table in the palace. Lemay hoped that young woman was still alive. He had done all he could. Her fate was in God’s hands now, not his. Still, he needed to check on her condition. He had not planned to leave her for such a long period of time, but the musketeers were suffering as well.

 

Their wounds were serious, but their mental state was far more concerning.  Lemay did not have much experience in caring for torture victims. However, he did have knowledge he had gained from his studies—knowledge he had fervently hoped to never have to use. 

 

He knew he was an outsider among the musketeers. However, he felt at this point that they needed his calm objectivity. The soldiers appeared to be in a daze. Their minds were playing tricks on them. This could be easily explained by fever or pain, but deep in his heart, Lemay knew that the real cause was their fear for each other. 

 

As they rode through the deserted streets, fatigue began to dull his thoughts. D’Artagnan, consumed with anxiety, urged his horse into a gallop. Lemay feared what the lad might do if bad news awaited them at the Palace. 

 

They finally reached the stable, and quickly dismounted. D’Artagnan nearly ran into the building. It was with difficulty that he was able to restrain himself enough to stay by Lemay’s side.

 

Several minutes later, they reached the room where Constance lay. D’Artagnan wrenched the door open and burst into the chamber. The Queen gasped, then relaxed a bit when she recognized the young soldier. The lad remained frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on Constance’s pale face. 

 

“How is she?” he asked, his voice choked with despair.

 

Anne gave him a small smile. “She asked for you, d’Artagnan.”

 

_ So she did regain consciousness at one point. That has to be a good sign. _

 

D’Artagnan took Constance’s hand in his, and pressed it to his lips. He remained motionless, afraid of hurting his sweetheart with any small movement.

 

Lemay inspected her wound. He was quite pleased with what he found. It was too soon to be optimistic, but when his eyes met the Queen’s anxious gaze, he knew he had to give her some comfort. 

 

“There’s no sign of infection so far, which is a good sign. You have given her outstanding care, Your Majesty.”

 

Anne gave him a half hearted smile.

“She’s my only friend,” she confessed, her voice breaking. 

 

Lemay nodded. He knew well that there was no other person she could call a friend. The Musketeers’ Captain was loyal to her, but she could never think of calling a man a friend. It was bad enough that she had let a commoner like Constance into her confidence. However, Lemay completely understood why the Queen trusted Constance. 

 

_ If only Madame Bonacieux were free… or rather, if only her heart were free… _

 

Lemay sighed, then covered the young woman with a blanket. 

 

“Can we transfer her to a bed?” the Queen suggested, her voice small. “She would be more comfortable.”

 

He nodded. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

 

Anne gave orders for the servants to prepare a stretcher for the patient.

 

“I can carry her!” d’Artagnan protested.

 

“I don’t doubt that you can, but it is safer to move her this way,” the doctor replied, placing a reassuring hand on the lad’s shoulder. The Gascon bowed his head and bit his lip, looking for all the world like a hurt pup. 

 

_ Pup… I have heard Athos and his men call d’Artagnan that. I always thought they were just teasing him, but it’s a very apt nickname. He really looks like a forlorn puppy right now. Poor kid—he must help his brothers recover.  _

 

Once all the arrangements were in place, Constance was transferred to her room. Lemay checked on her once more, then left her in the care of the Queen and the young musketeer. He longed for his own bed, but before he could reach his rooms, he was stopped by another musketeer.

 

“Doctor Lemay? Calbert asked me to fetch you immediately. It’s Porthos and Aramis, sir.”

 

The physician cast last one glance towards his room, giving up his dream of an hour or two of rest. He gave the man a weary nod. 

 

“Lead the way. What’s happened now?”

 

“Calbert found them on the floor. It seems that both of them got up, then collapsed.”

 

“What were they doing up?” he asked irritably, then immediately checked himself.

 

_ That’s a stupid question. If Aramis was on his feet, he probably fainted. Porthos lunged towards him in order to help, then found himself on the floor as well. I hope he hasn’t aggravated his wounds. These musketeers are as reckless as they are valiant.  _

 

They finally arrived at the garrison, and Lemay thanked his escort. He drew himself up as he entered the room, and did his best to look the part of an intimidating, furious physician.

 

Catching Porthos’ gaze, he said icily, “I distinctly recall telling you to not do anything stupid.”

 

His only answer was a guilty silence. Something really bad had happened. 

 

_ They are angry at each other. Well, that won’t help them. I need to know what this is all about. My best chance to do that is to get one of them outside the room so I can question him away from the others. Hmm. Porthos should not get up, and I really don’t feel like talking to Athos right now. That leaves Aramis.  _

 

He sighed, then set about examining Porthos. He was relieved to find no new injuries of significance. He gave the big man a reassuring smile. Then he turned to Aramis, his expression becoming grim.

 

_ “ _ We need to talk,” he said, his voice gruff. “Outside.”

 

The musketeer blanched, but Lemay was too angry to care. Porthos and Aramis’ actions would set their recovery back, and that was bad enough. But if not for the grace of God, the men could have easily lost their lives.

 

Aramis dutifully got to his feet. He took a few steps, then stumbled. The doctor caught his arm, supporting the marksman as he made his way out of the room. Then Lemay led Aramis into an empty chamber that was a little further down the corridor. Shutting the door behind them, he helped Aramis ease himself onto the bed. Once the musketeer had settled back onto the pillows,  Lemay covered him with a blanket. He then sat down on the chair next to the bed, and eyed the ailing man. 

 

“Could you please explain to me how Monsieur Porthos ended up on the floor?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as stern as possible.

 

“It was my fault. How is he?”

 

“I don’t care whose fault it was. I want to know what happened.”

 

Pain and guilt flooded the musketeer’s eyes. He lowered his gaze in submission, and Lemay’s heart ached. 

 

_ What kind of mental damage was done when they tortured you? _

 

“I attempted to leave. He stopped me.”

 

“Why didn’t you simply reassure him that you would be back soon?”

 

“I didn’t intend to come back.” Aramis met Lemay’s gaze. “Porthos knew that.”

 

“Why did you want to leave?”

 

_ You need to talk to a stranger. Someone who is emotionally objective. _

 

“Listen, it’s not your concern.”

 

“That’s where you are very much wrong, Monsieur Aramis. As you two are under my care, I have every right to be concerned. Did you want to kill him?!”

 

“No! God, no!” Aramis started to shiver. “How bad off is he?”

 

“I will give you an answer—provided you answer my questions.”

 

Aramis bit his lip, and the doctor saw flashes of anger and pain in the musketeer’s eyes. 

 

“Deal,” he whispered. The need to know his brother’s fate had prevailed over his need for privacy. 

 

“He does not appear to have suffered any additional serious injuries. Still, he must be extremely careful. If he starts to bleed internally, there will be no hope for him.”

 

The doctor allowed these words to sink in for a few moments, then asked, “Why did you intend to leave?”

 

“My presence is a problem for Athos,” the marksman breathed, his voice nearly inaudible.

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“He said that he is going to request that I be transferred to another regiment, as it is impossible for him to continue to serve with me.”

 

This was indeed shocking. Lemay watched the man for a few moments, taking in the pain in his eyes. This type of pain had nothing in common with his physical injuries. 

 

“Did he explain his demand?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Aramis remained silent. Lemay knew he needed to press him further. If he wanted to help this man, not just leave the wound in his soul to fester and kill him, he would need to know more. The very idea of one friend getting rid of another was painful, but these men were more to each other than just friends. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“He decided that my behaviour during our captivity had been— inappropriate. He could not risk such a thing happening again.”

 

“What did he find inappropriate?” Lemay held his breath, dreading the answer.

 

Closing his eyes, Aramis shook his head. “I cannot tell you.”

 

“Cannot? Or will not?”

 

Aramis did not reply. 

 

Lemay stared at him for a moment, then decided to take the risk. “You need to talk to me, Monsieur.”

 

The musketeer looked at him, his eyes dull. “Why?”

 

Lemay hesitated. He knew that he had to choose his words with care. Otherwise, he would lose any chance to get through to this tormented soul. 

 

“Your friend, Monsieur Porthos, needs you.”

 

“Why does he need me? You’re a physician, a man with formal medical training. I’m just a field medic.”

 

“But you’re his friend. You can be at his side while I attend to my other duties.” He waited a moment, then said smoothly, “The other one—your lieutenant—he needs you as well.”

 

Aramis gave a bitter laugh. “What Athos needs is for me to be as far away from him as possible.”

 

“You’re wrong. He needs to stop blaming himself for your torture.”

 

“What do you know about it?! Nothing. You weren’t there.” The marksman’s voice was louder, but it was without heat. He hung his head, sadness and hopelessness radiating from him. “I—I showed him nothing but disrespect.”

 

“You were in pain,” Lemay said softly.

 

“Yes! That was the price for his life—and he hates me because I chose to pay it. I could not just let him die. I saved his life, and he hates me for it. So be it. I will not protest my transfer.”

 

“Do you really think that Captain Treville will just accept his decision? My guess is that he will respond by ordering Athos’ transfer instead.”  That statement was a wild shot, but Lemay really felt that there was no reason for musketeers’ leader to agree to transfer Aramis. 

 

The wounded musketeer fell silent, and seemed to retreat into his thoughts. Just when Lemay started to lose hope for any further conversation, the marksman eyes’ widened in understanding. 

 

“He’s punishing himself! He knows Treville won’t agree. Athos will respond by resigning his commission! He’s rejecting us!”

 

“You must remember that he has a fever,” the doctor said quietly. “His illness is more than likely affecting his judgement.”

 

Aramis closed his eyes. He looked defeated.

“I don’t know how to help him to cope with his guilt this time,” he confessed, his voice broken.

 

“How have you helped him in the past?”

 

“Well, we usually force our presence on him, make him part of our lives, even when he doesn’t want us to… often that ends up with us carrying him home from one tavern or another. But this time, I have no strength left to fight him.”

 

“Give yourself some time. You are wounded. Once your body and mind heal, you should regain your strength.”

 

Aramis looked at him, disbelief clear in his eyes. 

 

“How?”

 

Lemay knew what the marksman was asking. Suddenly, the responsibility felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders. 

 

“Talk to me.”

 

“Talk to you?” Aramis laughed bitterly. “I hardly know you. Why should I trust you?”

 

“You trusted me with Porthos’ life—and at this point, I suspect his life is more precious to you than your own.”

 

Aramis gave him a brief nod. “You’re correct. But what makes you think that talking to you will help me?”

 

“I’m not your friend. Your words cannot hurt me. Besides, I’m the royal physician. Part of my job is knowing how to keep secrets. Trust me, I am no stranger to pain and despair.”

 

Aramis gave him a bitter smile. “I know how to deal with those two emotions. But right now, I am not in pain—and I do not despair.”

 

“So what do you feel?”

 

Aramis closed his eyes. “Nothing. There’s nothing left.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> I do apologize to you for the delay in posting. I hope you’ll still find time to read and review.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

_ Nothing. When has this word started to define his feelings?  _

_ Why am I talking to him? _

 

“Nothing?”, Lemay asked his voice low. 

 

_ Very painful nothing.  _

 

Aramis nodded.

 

“When has this feeling started?”

 

_ When I asked them to abuse me to save Athos… _

 

“I needed to feel nothing when I decided to obey our tormentors.”

 

“ Had you known the outcome, would you have done the same? ”

“Yes. Even if I had known that Athos wouldn’t accept it.”

“Do you accept it?”

 

“Yes. I do.”

 

_ I’d do everything to save my brothers. I am at peace with that. So why do I feel so empty?  _

 

“You’re a man of medicine. Will this feeling pass?”, Aramis asked a bit timidly.

 

“It will. Though you should not expect that it will happen immediately. You have close friends. Talk to them. Let them help you.”

 

_ Athos is angry at me. D’Artagnan is too worried about Constance. And Porthos is seriously wounded so how can I put more weight on him. _

 

Aramis inclined his head slightly. He knew Lemay wanted to give him hope, but was there any? Was he truly seeking it? He needed respite from pain and despair but would he find it before it was too late? 

 

He fled the room mumbling some thanks. Lemay did not try to stop him nor help him, for which Aramis was truly grateful. 

He reached his brothers’ room furious at the weakness of his body. He threw himself on his bed ignoring the pain it caused and the obvious query in Porthos’ gaze.

 

“Mis?”, the dark skinned musketeer was a stubborn one.

 

Lemay knocked and asked Calbert to leave the room with him to receive further instructions. Aramis was pretty sure that the physician wanted to give him and Porthos some time alone to talk. 

 

“Leave me”, Aramis mumbled.

He felt encaged. The helplessness of dealing with his emotions, or rather the lack of any emotions, was suffocating.

 

_ I just want it all to end. There is no strength nor faith left in me… still, I know that my death would jeopardize Porthos’ recovery. There is no way out…  _

 

“Mis, come here, please.”, Porthos asked and Aramis knew he was not able to turn down his wounded brother’s plea. Porthos gave him some space on his bed and the marksman lied down terribly worn out. 

 

“Has Lemay talked some sense into your stubborn head?”, Porthos asked.

“Leave it.”, Aramis growled.

 

“Mis…”

  
  


_ The only thing which may help me now is the intimate attention of a lovely woman but I know I won’t tolerate it. Or a bullet in the head. This should also help. _

 

“I can’t, Porthos. I can’t carry on. I’m so sorry, brother…”, only when he finished he became aware he said it aloud. He froze.

 

“I know, Mis. And I do know I’m asking too much… but I thought you’re dead and I cannot imagine going through this again. I can’t lose you. I can’t let you go, for I’ll be doomed without you. I am so selfish, brother, but I need you!”

 

Aramis could not find any answer. He wished he had been able to grant his friend’s plea but it seemed to be so terribly too much. 

 

Suddenly, the walls of the room started to close in. There was no air to breathe. The marksman frantically got up.

 

“I’ll be back”, he mumbled in a probably vain hope that Porthos remained in bed and escaped the room. He needed to be alone. He needed to be outside. He stumbled on the stairs and probably would have ended up on their bottom on his face were it not for Treville catching him just in time. 

 

The musketeer allowed his Captain to manhandle him in the direction of Inseparables’ table and sat down on a bench. 

 

Treville eyed him seriously for a moment. 

 

“I need your report”, he said quietly, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to reach my office.”

Aramis wanted to agree with this assessment; however, he needed to give his report in private. 

 

“Secrecy is required, Sir”, he replied.

 

Treville nodded.

 

Climbing the stairs was a huge effort but it proved doable with the Captain’s help, though by the top Aramis was soaked in sweat and shivering. Dark spots were dancing before his eyes. He was dimly aware of being sat down in a chair and of the smell of brandy reaching his nose.

 

“Drink!”, Treville ordered. Aramis gulped the contents of the glass touching his lips. 

 

He took a shaky inbreath welcoming the fire caused by the alcohol in his throat. 

 

He lowered his eyes as if fascinated by the floor and started his report. His words as dispassionate as his voice. 

 

He decided against hiding anything. He needed to present the rough truth to let Treville be his judge. He would accept his Captain’s decisions. This one time in his life he needed the guidance his superior could provide him. He even briefly mentioned that Athos did not accept his choices. 

 

Treville let the silence reign after Aramis’ last words. The marksman felt his intense gaze. 

 

“You’re a brave man. You saved your brother, your King and your country. I am proud of you.”

 

Aramis lifted his head in shock just to make sure the Captain was not mocking at him. But he saw only honesty in Treville’s gaze. 

 

“Aramis, it a true reward to have you under my command.”, Treville must have sensed his doubts. 

 

He wanted to protest but his leader silenced him with a gesture.

 

“I guess you feel horrible after your ordeal but I know it will pass. I believe in your inner strength Aramis. You show us how resilient you are. You’re going to overcome this son… and if you are need, I’m here for you…”

 

Aramis felt his eyes prickling with unwanted tears.

 

“Captain, if Athos demands that I leave the regiment…”

“I hope that Athos regains his senses as he recovers. There is no way I would agree to you leaving. As I told you the first day we met - you’re too good to be in the infantry.”

 

Aramis tried to regain his composure. He nearly managed it, but then Treville pulled him into an embrace and every attempt failed. 

 

The marksman felt like he fell into a black hole at the core of the emptiness of his being. He desperately gripped Treville’s doublet. His very soul was shattering, yet no sound escaped from his mouth and his eyes remained stubbornly dry, even though everything in him was howling in pain. He was not able to indicate the source of his agony. 

 

Was it his complete failure to protect his loved one? Was it Anne’s pain and torment? The tortures inflicted on Athos?  The possibly fatal wounds Constance and Porthos had received? Ultimately, was it his own agony? 

 

“Aramis, your actions speak of your honor and courage.”, Treville’s firm voice reached him in his internal hell. 

 

_ Courage? Honor? I doubt I have them anymore. But if the Captain’s wish is to see me as a good soldier I will try to meet his expectations. To die honorably avenging my beloved Anne. I’ll die making sure Rochefort won’t hurt anyone else. I can do it. I owe it to all those I’ve failed.  _

 

_ I need to be fit for fight. I need to focus on it and keep going until I kill the monster. Then, after I’m gone, France will be a safer place.  _

 

Aramis knew that if it were anyone else’s plan, he would protest loudly against it. It was a path leading to death. He was aware of that but in the meantime this thought seemed to give him an illusion of comfort he wished not to deny himself. 

 

He drew in a shaking breath and slowly entangled himself from the Captain’s arms. He knew that normally he would feel embarrassed by such an emotional display, but he could only feel relief to have found a suitable way out of the mess he had become. 

 

“Thank you, Captain”, he said sincerely. Treville caught his gaze and look into his eyes. Aramis shuddered as he felt that his leader saw much more than he wanted him to. There was a steel determination in Treville’s eyes that cut through marksman’s demeanor and seemed to touch his very core. However, after a moment of this scrutiny, the Captain nodded his acceptance.

 

“I count on you, Aramis, to help me end this mess.”, he concluded.

“I won’t fail you”, the medic promised easily. This he could swear. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Legate of Apples for remarks and hints.  
> I apalogize to you all for the delay in posting. I'll do my best to do it more often. I hope you'll still enjoy this story.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Legate of Apple for all his hints and suggestions!

Athos

 

Slowly, he crawled towards consciousness. The silence was only filled by breathes around him. He felt he had been ill or wounded. He knew too intimately the taste of a recently broken fever, however the weakness in his body did harbor only long recovery. 

 

Memories started to invade his still sleepy brain. First, slowly and vaguely, then suddenly they sharpened. 

 

“Aramis!”, Athos painfully recalled all his harsh words spoken to the marksman. 

 

The swordsman sat up in a swift motion and waited as threatening darkness receded. When he slowly opened his eyes he realized that Aramis was watching him intently his eyes bearing into the swordsman’s soul.

 

“I’m sorry”, Athos gasped.

 

Aramis tilted his head with a questioning look in his eyes. 

 

Athos realized that this time his friend had been wounded too deeply to help him. It was the former comte who needed to ask for forgiveness. 

 

“I am angry with you for your sacrifice. I am not worthy your life… but I’m sorry for wanting you to leave.”

 

Aramis froze. His eyes searched Athos’ and the swordsman nearly cried when he saw the depth of his brother’s despair. 

 

“The anger took the best on me. I hate seeing you hurt. So all I could think in my feverish condition was that I… needed to save myself from seeing you in pain. It was unforgivable. So I apologize.”

 

Dark haunted eyes were watching him intently. The swordsman had the impression that his friend was inspecting his very soul.

 

“And now? What do you think now?”, Aramis asked.

 

“I wish it had never happened. I wish you’d never given your life for mine. I wish I’d never been so outrageously ungrateful. But those wishes can’t be granted. I am honored to have you as my brother in arms and terrified by your willingness to sacrifice…”

 

“Athos… you’d have done exactly the same for any of us”, Aramis’ voice was gentle but this tenderness made the swordsman nervous. What if his brother had already decided to leave? 

 

“Would you stay under my command, please?”, he asked his voice strained.

 

“I would”, Aramis replied solemnly. 

 

There was no smile, no relief in marksman’s eyes. Only the sadness.

 

“Aramis…”, Athos was at loss what to say, never good with words. 

 

“I thought my world finally ended when you asked me to leave. I’m tired, Athos… and there is no rest for us with Rochefort on the loose.”

 

“We’ll prevail.”, the swordsman murmured touching Aramis’ hand. It was a relief to see the marksman accepting his touch. 

 

They sat in silence. For this, Athos was grateful. He was not so sure he could ever be so lenient and forgiving as Aramis was.

 

There was a knock on the door. Athos tensed, Aramis aimed his gun.

 

“Come in”, he ordered. 

“Don’t shoot, please”, Milady entered with a mocking smile. Aramis lowered his gun.

 

“What do you want?”, Athos asked.

 

It hurt to see her. So beautiful.

 

_ The King’s lover... _

 

“I wanted to check if you’re alive. I am sorry I left you behind.”

 

“Don’t be”, he growled, “Now that you’ve seen I’m alive, leave!”

 

“As far as I know, Rochefort has escaped. Don’t underestimate him. He’s still a great danger to you and your precious friends.”

 

“I don’t need your insightful words to know it”, Athos wished his stare could kill.

 

She huffed unperturbed. 

 

Part of him wanted her to get out immediately, but another found a painful pleasure in looking at her beautiful face. She was radiant in the expensive green dress she wore. 

 

_ No! She is playing with you! She knows the way she affects you! You, idiot, stop peering at her!  _

 

“Dear Athos, I came here because he’s bribing the courtiers as we speak.”

“Have you seen him?!”

“Obviously not. But I know how to listen.”

“Have you come here because you need my help?”

“How would I dare to do such a thing?!”,  she tried to sound shocked. Had he not known her he would have believed it.

 

“No, dear Athos. I’ve had the impression that we’re working together to bring him down so I’ve come to share some information with you.”

 

“Do you know his whereabouts?”, Aramis asked and Athos realized that, caught in the emotional turmoil, he had nearly forgotten about his friend’s presence. 

 

“I wish I knew”, she replied sadly, “However he got in touch with comte d’Allancourt and his offer presented to him was eagerly accepted.”

 

“Do you have any proof?”, Aramis breathed, his face nearly white.

“Not yet. I will. I should have a mole in True Musketeers soon.”, she smiled triumphantly.

 

_ She’s managed to accomplish what we’ve been trying for so long.  _

 

“What do you want in return?”, Aramis asked businesslike.

 

“The guarantee you won’t leave me behind if I misstep.”, she replied clearly.

 

Athos did not like that at all. He was opposed to giving her any promises.

 

“You have it.”, Aramis answered solemnly.

“What?!! Aramis, you can’t promise her you’ll help her! What if she betray us?!”

 

“As long as Milady is loyal to us she deserves our loyalty. She’s been helping us.”

 

“Only because she has her best interest in it.”

“Usually allies are united by shared goals.”, Aramis retorted.

 

Athos felt betrayed by his brother. But the marksman seemed to be right. They were on the same side in the war against Rochefort. Still, his friend was not aware of how cruel and deceptive creature she was. 

 

“Well, Athos… you friend seems to have much more reason than you…”, she drawled.

 

“What’s your plan now?”, Aramis did not let Athos answer.

 

“I’m going to return to my duty at the King’s side. Meanwhile I intend to gather some information. Allancourt is said to be coming to Paris by the end of the week but still I need to confirm it.”

 

“I am afraid we have no information to exchange. We’re a bit grounded here”, once again it was Aramis who replied.

 

And Athos could not decide if he was filled with gratitude or fury.

 

“So I see”, she smiled.

 

She bid them farewell and left. The scent of jasmine lingered in the room. Athos kept watching the door with a kind of bewilderment. Memories flooded his mind. The smell of her skin, the touch of her lips. He needed to take her in his arms, let himself drown in her green eyes…

 

A shot roused him from his reveries. Still, he was not truly aware of the situation, his senses dimmed by the weakness of his body combined with the weakness of his heart.

 

Aramis flew through doors, his pistol in his hand and Athos felt the urge to follow him, though his body protested when he tried to stand. 

 

“Need help?”, asked a groggy Porthos.

“No! Stay put!”, he growled unsure if his fear was for Aramis who was not fit for fight or Milady who might have been shot at.

 

Finally Athos managed to reach the garrison court. There were a small crowd near the gate, but despite it Athos saw Milady’s green dress on the dirty ground. 

  
  


Was she killed? Why did the thought make his heart freeze? He had sentenced her to death. He wanted her dead. Wasn’t her death in the service for France the best gift he should have prayed for? 

 

An awful fear filled him instead of relief. All his strength left him, and he needed to lean against the wall. His legs were trembling, his whole body was shaking.

 

_ My Anne is dying there. Alone. I need to be at her side. It’s my place not Aramis’.  _

_ My Anne?! No, she’s not my Anne. My Anne died with Thomas. There had never been my Anne… _

 

_ So why can’t I go there to check on her. On the King’s official lover?  It’s my duty as a musketeer. It would be a sad thing to lose an ally, but I should not be so mortified by such a thought.  _

 

The stretcher was brought and his wife was placed on it. He could see Aramis pressing his hands to her stomach. Blood was seeping between his fingers.

 

They rushed to the nearest building and Athos suddenly found himself on the ground, his vision blurred by tears. He wanted to follow them, to check on his...wife, but instead he froze. Only the unwanted tears gave away he was not as dead as he felt. 

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Riversidewren for betaing :)


End file.
